42 The Fabillis
And winkand with the ane eye furth he wend.
Clinscheand he come, that he micht not be kend,
And for dreddour that he suld thoill arreist,
He playit bukhude behind, fra beist to beist.
O fylit spreit, and cankerit conscience,
Befoir ane roy renzeit with richteousnes,
Blakinnit cheikis, and schamefull countenance,
Fairweill thy fame now gone is all thy grace,
The phisnomie, the fauour off thy face,
For thy defence is foull and disfigurate,
Brocht to the licht basit, blunt, and blait.
Be thow atteichit with thift, or with tressoun,
For thy misdeid wrangous, and wickit fay,
Thy cheir changis lowrence, thow man luke doun,
Thy worschip of this warld is went away.
Luke to this tod how he wes in effray,
And fle the filth of falset I the reid,
Quhairthrow thair fallowis syn, and schamefull deid.
Compeirand thus befoir thair lord and king.
In ordour set as to thair stait effeird.
Of euerilk kynd he gart ane part furth bring,
And awfullie he spak, and at thame speird,
Geue there wes ony beist in to this eird,
Absent, and thairto gart thame deiplie sweir,
And thay said nane, except ane gray stude meir.
Ga make ane message sone vnto that stude,
Off Esope. 43
The court than cryit my lord quha sall it be,
Cum furth lowrie lurkand vnder thy hude,
Aa schir. Mercie, lo I haue bot ane ee,
Hurt in the hoche, and cruikit as ze may se.
The volff is better in ambassatry,
And mair cunning in clergie fer than I.
Rampand he said, ga furth ze brybouris baith,
And thay to ga withowtin tarying,
Ouer ron and rute thay ran togidder raith,
And fand the meir at hir meit in the morning.
Now quod the tod madame cum to the king,
The court is callit, and ze ar contumax
Let be lowrence quod scho zour cowrtlie knax.
Maistres quod he cum to the court ze mon,
The lyoun hes commandit so in deid.
Schir tod tak ze the flyrdome, and the fon,
I haue respite ane zeir, and ze will reid.
I can not spell quod he sa God me speid,
Heir is the volff, ane nobill clerk at all,
And of this message is maid principall.
He is autentik, and ane man of age,
And hes grit practik of the chanceliary.
Let him ga luke, and reid zour priuilage,
And I sall stand, and beir witnes zow by.
Quhair is thy respite quod the volff in hy?
Schir it is heir vnder my hufe weill hid.