CXLII

What death is worse than this?
When my delight,
My weal, my joy, my bliss
Is from my sight
Both day and night,
My life, alas, I miss.

For though I seem alive
My heart is hence.
Thus, bootless for to strive
Out of presence
Of my defence,
Toward my death I drive.

Heartless, alas, what man
May long endure?
Alas, how live I then?
Since no recure
May me assure,
My life I may well ban.

Thus doth my torment go
In deadly dread.
Alas, who might live so,
Alive as dead,
Alive to lead
A deadly life in woe?