Sonnet 62. The Poets Apologie to the Kirk of Edinburgh I wonder of jour Wisdomes, that ar wyse, That baith miskennis my method and my Muse ; Quhen I invey, such epithets I wse, That evin Alecto laughing at me lyis. My trumpets tone is terribler be tuyis Nor jon couhorne, vhereof je me accuse ; For fra the Fureis me with fyr infuse, Quhom Bautie byts, he deir that bargan byis ; For if I open wp my anger anes, To plunge my pen into that stinking Styx, My tongue is lyk the lyons ; vhair it liks, It brings the flesh, lyk bryrie, fra the banes : I think it scorne, besyd the skaith and sklander, To euin an ape with aufull Alexander. |
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