A. C. Cawley
Alas, wherto may I truste?
Beaute gothe fast awaye fro me.
She promysed with me to lyue and dye.
Eueryman, I wyll the also forsake and denye;
Thy game lyketh me not at all.
Why, than, ye wyll forsake me all?
Swete Strength, tary a lyttel space.
Nay, syr, by the rode of grace!
I wyll hye me from the fast,
Though thou wepe to thy herte to-brast.
Ye wolde euer byde by me, ye sayd.
Ye, I haue you ferre ynoughe conueyde.
Ye be olde ynoughe, I vnderstande,
Your pylgrymage to take on hande.
I repent me that I hyder came.
Strength, you to dysplease I am to blame.
Wyll ye breke promyse that is dette?
In fayth, I care not.
Thou arte but a foole to complayne;
You spend your speche and wast your brayne.
Go thryst the in to the grounde.