(59) H1 verso-H2r (Page 114-115)

114 The Fabillis

With mynd inconstant, fals, and wariand,
Full off desait, and menis cautelous.
Let be thy preiching quod the hungrie mous
And be quhat craft thow gar me vnderstand,
That thow wald gyde me to zone zonder land

Thow wait quod scho ane bodie that hes neid,
To help thame self, suld mony wayis cast.
Thairfoir ga tak ane doubill twynit threid,
And bind thy leg to myne with knottis fast.
I sall the leir to swym, be not agast,
Als weill as I, as thow than quod the mous
To preif that play, it wer our perrillous.

Suld I be bund, and fast, quhar I am fre,
In hoip off help, na than I schrew vs baith.
For I mycht lois baith lyfe and libertie.
Giff it wer swa, quha suld amend the skaith?
Bot gif thow sweir to me the murthour aith,
But fraud, or gyle, to bring me ouer this flude,
But hurt, or harme. In faith quod scho I dude.

Scho goikit vp, and to the heuin can cry:
How iuppiter, off nature God and king.
I mak ane aith trewlie to the, that I.
This lytill mous sall ouer this watter bring.
This aith wes maid, the mous but persauing

Off Esope. 115

The fals ingyne of this foull crappald pad,
Tuke threid, and band hir leg, as scho hir bad.

Than fute, for fute, thay lap baith in the brym.
Bot in thair myndis thay wer rycht different.

The mous thocht na thing, bot to fleit and swym:
The paddok for to droun set hir intent.
Quhen thay in midwart off the streme wer went,
With all hir force the paddok preissit doun.
And thocht, the mous without mercie to droun.

Persauand this, the mous on hir can cry,
Tratour to God, and manesworne vnto me.
Thow swore the murthour aith richt now, that I
But hurt, or harme, suld ferryit be and fre.
And quhen scho saw thair wes bot do, or de
Scho bowtit vp and forsit hir to swym:
And preissit vpon the taiddis bak to clym.

The dreid of deith hir strenthis gart incres,
And forcit hir defend, with mycht, and mane.
The mous vpwart: the paddok doun can pres.
Quhyle to, quhyle fra, quhyle doukit vp agane.
This selie mous this plungit in grit pane,
Gan fecht als lang as breith wes in hir breist.
Till at the last, scho cryit for ane preist.

Fechtand thusgait the gled sat on ane twist,
And to this wretchit battell tuke gude heid.