[Written by Richard Chaucer anno 1572]
alone walkyng, in thought planing,
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
meto 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.