I. (In seven-line stanzas.)
The longe night, whan every creature
Shulde have hir rest in somwhat, as by kinde,
Or elles ne may hir lyf nat long endure,
Hit falleth most in-to my woful minde
5
How I so fer have broght my-self behinde,
That, sauf the deeth, ther may no-thing me lisse,
So desespaired I am from alle blisse.
This same thoght me lasteth til the morwe,