Of Content
Quho
thinkis
that
he
hes
sufficence
Of
gudis
hes
no
indigence,
Thocht
he
have
nowder
land
nor
rent,
Grit
mycht
nor
hie
magnificence,
He
hes
anewch
that
is
content.
Quho
had
all
riches
unto
Ynd
And
wer
not
satefeit
in
mynd,
With
povertie
I
hald
him
schent
-
Of
covatyce
sic
is
the
kynd.
He
hes
anewch
that
is
content.
Thairfor
I
pray
yow,
bredir
deir,
Not
to
delyt
in
daynteis
seir;
Thank
God
of
it
is
to
thee
sent,
And
of
it
glaidlie
mak
gud
cheir.
Anewch
he
hes
that
is
content.
Defy
the
warld,
feynyeit
and
fals,
Withe
gall
in
hart
and
hunyit
hals;
Quha
maist
it
servis
maist
sall
repent:
Of
quhais
subchettis
sour
is
the
sals.
He
hes
anewch
that
is
content.
Giff
thow
hes
mycht,
be
gentill
and
fre,
And
gif
thow
standis
in
povertie,
Of
thine
awin
will
to
it
consent,
And
riches
sall
returne
to
thee.
He
hes
aneuch
that
is
content.
And
ye
and
I,
my
bredir
all,
That
in
this
lyfe
hes
lordschip
small,
Lat
langour
not
in
us
imprent;
Gif
we
not
clym,
we
tak
no
fall.
He
hes
aneuch
that
is
content.
For
quho
in
warld
moist
covatus
is
In
warld
is
purast
man,
iwis,
And
moist
nedy
of
his
intent;
For
of
all
gudis
nothing
he
hes,
That
of
nothing
can
be
content.
