317
Envie.
Ane plante there is of the deidliest pouir
Quhilk flourischis deeply in the hert;
Its lang rutis creip and fald outoure
Ilka vive and breathen part:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.
Blak is the sap of its baleful stem,
Lyk funeral blicht its leavis do fal;
In its moistoure is quenchit luve's pure flame,
It drappis rust on inmost saul:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon,
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.
Evir it flourischis meikel and hie,
Nae stay, nae hindraunce will it bruik;
In ae nicht sprynging up, a burdlie tree,
Schedding its bale at ae single luik:
Lustilie bourgenis the weid anon,
Till hert hath rottit and lyf hath flown.
