Edward Hughes - Heart Of Snow
Virelay
Alone walkyng
In thought playnyng,
And sore syghyng;
All desolate,
Me remembryng
Of my livyng;
My death wyshyng
Bothe early and late.
Infortunate
Is so my fate,
That, wote ye what?
Out of measure
My lyfe I hate;
Thus desperate,
In suche poor estate,
Doe I endure.
Of other cure
Am I not sure;
Thus to endure
Is hard, certayn;
Such is my ure,
I you ensure;
What creature
May have more payn?
My truth so playn
Is taken in vayn,
And grete disdayn
In remembraunce;
Yet I full fayn
Would me complayne,
Me to abstayne
From this penaunce.
But, in substaunce,
None alleggeaunce
Of my gryevaunce
Can I not fynde;
Right so my chance,
Wyth displeasaunce,
Doth me advaunce;
And thus an ende.
— Geoffrey Chaucer
