Alone walking, in thought plaining,
And sore sighing, all desolate
Me remembring, of my living,
My death wishing, both early and late.

Infortunate, is so my fate,
That vote ye what? Out of measure.

My life I hate, thus desperate
In soche pore eslate though I endure.

Of other cure am I not sure
Thus to endure is hard, certain.

Such is my cure I you ensure:
What creature may have more pain?

My [bad word] so plain is taken in vain,
And great disdain in remembrence;

Yet i full faine would [bad word] Me to abstaine from this penence;

But in substaunce none Allegiance
Of my grevaunce can I not find:

Right so my chance with Displeasance
Doeth me avance and thus an end.