The longe nightes, whan every creature
Shulde have hir rest in somwhat as by kynde,
Or elles ne may hir lif nat longe endure,
Hit falleth most into my woful mynde
How I so fer have broght myself behynde
That, sauf the deeth, ther may nothyng me lisse,
So desespaired I am from alle blisse.
This same thoght me lasteth til the morwe
And from the morwe forth til hit be eve;
Ther nedeth me no care for to borwe,
For bothe I have good leyser and good leve;
Ther is no wyght that wol me wo bereve
To wepe ynogh and wailen al my fille;
The sore spark of peyne now doth me spille.
