| Lyrics: | [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. |
