Alone walkyng, in thought plaining,
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 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.