I Do confess thou art sae fair,
I was been o’er the lugs in luve,
Had I nafound the slightest prayer
That lips could speak thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet, butfind
Thou art so thriftless o’thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,
Amangits native briers saecoy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pu’d and worn a common toy.
Sicfate erelangshall thee betide,
Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile;
And sunethou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.