To The Authour Poem by Robert Gordon

Altho my shallowe witt sound's nott thy deep,
And weakling ey's followes not thy flight:
Tho wher thow run's, I can not thether creep,
Nor chyldishe weaknes imitat thy might
Since in this sacred trade I made a pause,
By intermitting of my Elio's lawes.


Yit since I haue most wonderouslie detected
A swane whoes Syren-musique me enchant's
Yit since I find eune wheir I least suspected
A lurking poët in our home-bred haunt's
O when I sie him, when I sueetlie hear him,
I can not but commend him and admeir him.


Thy years (dear frend) ar young, thy wit is old,
Thy youth er chyld tyme come is brought a bed,
Thy mine in liew of ore, yeilds purest gold
Thy basest rob's with crimsone ouerclade
How glade am I thoes mythologique flowrs
Argue the reconnings of thine Idle hours.