Alone walking, In thought pleyning,
And sore sighing, All desolate,
Me remembring Of my living,
My deth wishing Bothe erly and late.

Infortunate Is so my fate
That, wote ye what? Out of mesure
My lyf I hate Thus desperate;
In pore estate Do I endure.

Of other cure Am I nat sure,
Thus to endure Is hard, certain;
Such is my ure, I yow ensure;
What creature May have more pain?

My trouth so pleyn Is take in veyn,
And gret disdeyn In remembraunce;
Yet I full feyn Wold me compleyn
Me to absteyn From this penaunce.

But in substaunce Noon allegeaunce
Of my grevaunce Can I nat finde;
Right so my chaunce With displesaunce
Doth me avaunce; And thus an ende.

Explicit