Alone walking, In thought pleyning,
And sore sighing, All desolate,
Me remembring Of my living,
My deth wishing Bothe erly and late.

Infortunate Is so my fate       5
That, wote ye what? Out of mesure
My lyf I hate Thus desperate;
In pore estate Do I endure.

Of other cure Am I nat sure,
Thus to endure Is hard, certain;       10
Such is my ure, I yow ensure;
What creature May have more pain?

My trouth so pleyn Is take in veyn,
And gret disdeyn In remembraunce;
Yet I full feyn Wold me compleyn       15
Me to absteyn 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.       20

⁠Explicit.