Dulcour

So dulcour was the ground in whom crist hym planted.

The blak Pluto, thoch he war never ſo ſchairpe, Orpheus movit with ſueitnes of his harpe. The hardeſt hairt, be it aſſailyit oft, With ſueit meiknes it may be makin ſoft; And, namlie, be the dulcour feminine, Quhilk at all tyme the maiſt motive hes bene To gentil hairts, of onye thing alyve,

Myn ignoraunce whome clouded hath eclyppes With thy pure bemes illumynyne all aboute Thy blessyd brethe let refleyre in my lyppes And with the dewe of heven thou them degoute So that my mouth may blowe an encense oute The redolent dulcour aromatyke

So Crist, as he was ruthfully hamerd apon the Croce, Songe to his Fadire of heven in a full swete voice: So swete and faire was it, and full of all dulcoure, Þat it convertid thre thovzand men in þat ilk one houre; […]

In-so-moche that maryners when they saile so farre on lofe as they may well know and apperceive the coost of that contrey, yet the dulcour and aire delicious vppon theym so […]

Thare is plentie of all plesouris perfyte, Euident brychtnes, but obscuritie; Withouttin dolour, dulcore and delyte; Withouttin rancour, perfyte Cheritie;

[…] that by its colour and dulcour they might be remembered of the purity and delightfulness of the law.