Aytoun passed his entire life in luxury, died in Whitehall Palace in 1638, and was the first Scottish poet buried in Westminster Abbey.  His memorial bust was taken from a portrait by Vandyke.

INCONSTANCY UPBRAIDED

I loved thee once, I’ll love no more;
Thine be the grief as is the blame: 
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same? 
He that can love unloved again,
Hath better store of love than brain;
God send me love my debts to pay,
While unthrifts fool their love away.

Nothing could have my love o’erthrown,
If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine. 
But thou thy freedom didst recall,
That it thou might elsewhere inthrall;
And then how could I but disdain
A captive’s captive to remain?

When new desires had conquered thee,
And changed the object of thy will,
It had been lethargy in me,
Not constancy, to love thee still. 
Yea, it had been a sin to go
And prostitute affection so;
Since we are taught no prayers to say
To such as must to others pray.

Yet do thou glory in thy choice,
Thy choice of his good fortune boast;
I’ll neither grieve nor yet rejoice
To see him gain what I have lost. 
The height of my disdain shall be
To laugh at him, to blush for thee;
To love thee still, but go no more
A-begging to a beggar’s door.

LINES TO AN INCONSTANT MISTRESS

I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair,
And I might have gone near to love thee,
Had I not found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak had power to move thee. 
But I can let thee now alone,
As worthy to be loved by none.

I do confess thou’rt sweet, yet find
Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
Thy favors are but like the wind
Which kisseth everything it meets! 
And since thou canst love more than one,
Thou’rt worthy to be loved by none.

The morning rose that untouched stands,
Armed with her briers, how sweet she smells! 
But plucked and strained through ruder hands,
Her scent no longer with her dwells. 
But scent and beauty both are gone,
And leaves fall from her one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide,
When thou hast handled been awhile,
Like fair flowers to be thrown aside;
And thou shalt sigh while I shall smile,
To see thy love to every one
Hath brought thee to be loved by none.

BURNS’S ADAPTATION

I do confess thou art sae fair,
I wad been ower the lugs in love
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak, thy heart could move. 
I do confess thee sweet—­but find
Thou art sae thriftless o’ thy sweets,
Thy favors are the silly wind,
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 
See yonder rosebud rich in dew,
Among its native briers sae coy,
How sune it tines its scent and hue
When pu’d and worn a common toy. 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide,
Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile;
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside
Like any common weed and vile.