The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/Envie
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.
It canna be kythit to the gudely sun,
It pynyth sae at his nobil sicht;
It shrinkyth quyte like a thing undone
Quhan luikit on by the blessit licht:
In hert whence heevinlie luvc hath gone
Thilke evil weid aye bourgenis on.
Fell En vies th' plant of mortal pouir
Quhilk flourischis grenelye in the hert—
Raining the slawe and poisonous shouir
Quhilk c ankere th the vertuous part:
Black Envie wherever its seed is sawin,
Fashion is a hert like the foul Fiend's awin!