A. C. Cawley
A, Iesus, is all come here-to?
Lo, fayre wordes maketh fooles fayne;
They promyse, and nothynge wyll do, certayne.
My kynnesmen promysed me faythfully
For to a-byde with me stedfastly,
And now fast a-waye do they flee.
Euen so Felawshyp promysed me.
What frende were best me of to prouyde?
I lose my tyme here longer to abyde.
Yet in my mynde a thynge there is:
All my lyfe I haue loued ryches;
If that my Good now helpe my myght,
He wolde make my herte full lyght.
I wyll speke to hym in this dystresse.
Where arte thou, my Gooddes and ryches?