Alone walking,
In thought pleining
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 whate? —
Oute of mesure
My life I hate.
Thus desperate
In suche pore estate
Do I endure.

Of other cure
Am I nat sure.
Thus to endure
Is hard certain.
Suche is my ure
I you ensure:
What creature
May have more pain?

My trouth so plein
Is take in vein,
And gret disdein
In remembraunce.
Yet I full feine
Wold me compleine
Me to absteine
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.