Текст оригинала на английском языке
Alone walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb'ring Of my living; My death wishing Both early and late. Infortunate Is so my fate, That, wot ye what? Out of measure My life I hate; Thus desperate, In such poor estate, Do I endure. Of other cure Am I not sure; Thus to endure Is hard, certain; Such is my ure, I you ensure; What creature May have more pain? My truth so plain Is taken in vain, And great disdain In remembrance; Yet I full fain Would me complain, Me to abstain From this penance. But, in substance, None alleggeance Of my grievance Can I not find; Right so my chance, With displeasance, Doth me advance; And thus an end.
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