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.