Alone walkyng
In thought playnyng,
And sore syghyng;
 All desolate,
Me remembryng
Of my livyng;
My death wyssyng
 Bothe early and late.

Infortunate
Is so my fate,
That, wote ye what?
 Out of measure
My lyfe I hate;
Thus desperate,
In suche poor estate,
 Doe I endure.

Of other cure
Am I not sure;
Thus to endure
 Is hard, certayn;
Such is my ure,
I you ensure;
What creature
 May have more payn?

My truth so playn
Is taken in vayn,
And grete disdayn
 In remembraunce;
Yet I full fayn
Would me complayne,
Me to abstayne
 From this penaunce.

But, in substaunce,
None alleggeaunce
Of my gryevaunce
 Can I not fynde;
Right so my chance,
Wyth displeasaunce,
Doth me advaunce;
 And thus an ende.