[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
thus, endure, grete, remembryng, abstaine