Alone Walkyng

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.
 (Written by Richard Chaucer, 1572)