“I laif the Goik[249], quhilk hes no sang bot one, My musyke, with my voce angelycall; And to the Guse ye geve, quhen I am gone, My eloquence and toung rhetoricall. And tak and drye my bonis, gret and small, Syne close thame in one cais of ebure[250] fyne, And thame present onto the Phenix syne,
“To birne with hir quhen scho hir lyfe renewis. In Arabye ye sall hir fynde but weir[251], And sall knaw hir be hir moste hevinly hewis, Gold, asure, gowles, purpour, and synopeir[252]. Hir dait is for to leif fyve houndreth yeir. Mak to that bird my commendatioun. And als, I mak yow supplycatioun,
“Sen of my corps I have yow gevin the cure, Ye speid yow to the court, but tareyng, And tak my hart, of perfyte portrature, And it present unto my Soverane Kyng: I wat he wyll it clois in-to one ryng. Commende me to his Grace, I yow exhorte, And of my passion mak hym trew reporte.
“Ye thre my trypes sall have, for your travell[253], With luffer and lowng[254], to part equale amang yow; Prayand Pluto, the potent prince of hell, Geve ye failye, that in his feit he fang[255] yow. Be to me trew, thocht I no-thyng belang yow. Sore I suspect your conscience be too large.” “Doute nocht,” said they, “we tak it with the charge.”
“Adew, brether!” quod the pure Papingo; “To talking more I have no time to tarye; Bot, sen my spreit mon fra[256] my body go, I recommend it to the Quene of Farye, Eternallye in-tyll hir court to carye, In wyldernes among the holtis hore[257].” Than scho inclynit hir bed, and spak no more.
Plungit in-tyll hir mortall passioun, Full grevouslie scho gryppit to the ground. It war too lang to mak narratioun Of sychis sore, with mony stang and stound[258]. Out of hir wound the blude did so abound, One compas round was with hir blude maid reid: Without remeid, thare wes no-thyng bot dede[259].
And be scho had _In Manus tuas_ said, Extinctit wer hir naturall wyttis fyve; Hir heid full softlye on hir schulder laid, Syne yeild the spreit, with panes pungityve[260]. The Ravin began rudely to rug and ryve[261], Full gormondlyke[262], his emptie throte to feid. “Eit softlye, brother,” said the gredy Gled:
“Quhill scho is hote, depart hir evin amang us. Tak thow one half, and reik[263] to me ane-uther. In-tyll our rycht, I wat, no wycht dar wrang us.” The Pyote said, “The feind resave the fouther[264]! Quhy mak ye me stepbarne, and I your brother? Ye do me wrang, schir Gled, I schrew[265] your harte.” “Tak thare,” said he, “the puddyngis for thy parte.”