[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 desperatein soche pore eslate doe I endure.of othir cure am I not surethus to endure is hard certain.such is my ure I you ensure:what creaturemaie have more pain?my truthe so plain is take in vain,and grete disdain in remembraunce;yet I full fainewould me complainemeto abstaine from this penaunce:but in substaunce none allegeaunceof my grevaunce can I not finde:right so my chaunce withdisplesauncedoeth me avaunceand thus an ende.
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