A. C. Cawley
Here I lye, colde in the grounde.
Thy synnes hath me sore bounde,
That I can not stere.
O Good Dedes, I stande in fere!
I must you pray of counseyll,
For help now sholde come ryght well.
Eueryman, I haue vnderstandynge
That ye be somoned a-counte to make
Before Myssyas, of Iherusalem kynge;
And you do by me, that iournay with you wyll I take.
Therfore I come to you my moone to make.
I praye you that ye wyll go with me.
I wolde full fayne, but I can not stande, veryly.
Why, is there ony thynge on you fall?
Ye, syr, I may thanke you of all.
If ye had parfytely chered me,
Your boke of counte full redy had be.
Loke, the bokes of your workes and dedes eke
Ase how they lye vnder the fete,
To your soules heuynes.
Our Lorde Iesus help me!
For one letter here I can not se.
There is a blynde rekenynge in tyme of dystres.
Good Dedes, I praye you helpe me in this nede,
Or elles I am for euer dampned in dede;
Therfore helpe me to make rekenynge
Before the Redemer of all thynge,
That Kynge is, and was, and euer shall.
Eueryman, I am sory of your fall,
And fayne wolde I help you, and I were able.
Good Dedes, your counseyll I pray you gyue me.
That shall I do veryly.
Thoughe that on my fete I may not go,
I haue a syster that shall with you also,
Called Knowlege, whiche shall with you abyde,
To helpe you to make that dredefull rekenynge.