Alone walkyng, in thought planning, And sore sighing, all desolate. Me remembering, of my livyng, My dethe wishyng, Bother 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 Me to 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.
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