Alone walking, in thought plaining
And sore sighing, all desolate
Me remembring, of my living
My d**h wishing, both early and late
Infortunate, is so my fate
That vote ye what? Out of measure
My life I hate, thus desperate
In soche pore eslate though I endure
Of other cure am I not sure
Thus to endure is hard, certain
Such is my cure I you ensure:
What creature may have more pain?
My truth so plain is taken in vain
And great disdain in remembrence;
Yet i full faine would me complain
Me to abstaine from this penence;
But in substaunce none Allegiance
Of my grevaunce can I not find:
Right so my chance with Displesance
Doeth me avance and thus an ende