A LONE walking, In thought pleyning, And sor sighing, All desolate, Me remembring Of my living, My deth wishing, Bothe erly and late, Infortunate Is so my fate, That -- wote ye what? -- Out of mesure My lyf I hate. Thus desperate In pore estate Do I endure. Of other cure Am I nat sure; Thus to endure Is hard, certain. Such is my ure, I yow ensure. What creature May have more pain? My trouth so pleyn Is take in veyn, And gret disdeyn In remembraunce; Yet I ful feyn Wold me compleyn, Me to absteyn From this penaunce. But in substaunce Noon allegeaunce Of my grevaunce Can I nat finde. Right so my chaunce With displesaunce Doth me avaunce. And thus an end. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |