David Lyndsay

"Unthrift, sweirnes, falset, povertie, and stryfe Pat polacey in dainger of hir lyfe."

"That nicht he sleipit never ane wink, Bot still did on the Ladie think."

"Quhowbeit that divers devote cunnyng Clerkis In Latyne toung hes wryttin syndrie bukis, Our unlernit knawis lytill of thare werkis, More than thay do the rauyng of the Rukis. Quharefore to Colyearis, Cairtaris, & to Cukis, To Jok and Thome, my Ryme sall be diractit, With cunnyng men quhowbeit it wylbe lactit."

"Quhen the Sonne is at the hycht, Att nonne quhen it doith schyne most brycht, The schaddow of that hydduous strength Sax myle and more it is of lenth. Thus maye ye Juge, in to your thocht, Gyfe Babilone be heych, or nocht."

"Heir sall Wantones ga spy them and cum agane to the king"

"Heir entirs Flattery new landit owt of France"

"Brother Wantonness, what thinks thou? Yon are the Three Estates I trow Gangand backwart."

"Sir, I wald speir at ȝow ane questioun. Behauld sum Prelats of this Regioun: Manifestlie during thair lustie lyvfis, Thay swyfe Ladies, Madinis and vther mens wyfis. And sa thair cunts thay haue in consuetude. Quhidder say ȝe that law is evill or gude?"

"Ere I depart this natioun, I shall mak Reformatioun!"

"And to the Devill of hell condemne this mein3e; For quhy sic reformatioune, as I weine Into Scotland was never hard nor seine."

"But in the glances of his eye, A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home; The flash of that satiric rage, Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. * * * Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-arms!"

"Lyndsay, with all his ancient coarseness…maintained for two centuries, even among the precise, his position as the popular poet of Scotland."

"He usually lacks the originality of Henryson and the brilliance of Dunbar and Douglas. But what there is of him is good all through."