[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:

what creature

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

displesaunce

doeth me avaunce

and thus an ende.