[Written by Richard Chaucer anno 1572]
Alone walkyng, in thought planing,
And sore sighing, all desolate.
Me remembryng, of my livyng,
My dethe wishyng,
Bothe erly and late.
Infortunate, is so my fate,
That vote ye what? out of measure.
My life I hate, thus desperate
In soche pore eslate doe I endure.
Of othir cure am I not sure
Thus to endure is hard certain.
Such is my ure I you ensure:
Maie have more pain?
My truthe so plain is take in vain,
And grete disdain in remembraunce;
Yet I full faine
Would me complaine
Meto abstaine from this penaunce:
But in substaunce none allegeaunce
Of my grevaunce can I not finde:
Right so my chaunce with
Doeth me avaunce
And thus an ende.