And alle worldly blisse, as thinketh me,
[The ende of blisse] ay sorwe it occupyeth;
And who-so troweth not that it so be,
Lat him upon me, woful wrecche, y-see,
That my-self hate, and ay my birthe acorse,
840
Felinge alwey, fro wikke I go to worse.
121. Who-so me seeth, he seeth sorwe al at ones,
[Peyne, torment,] pleynte, wo, distresse.
Out of my woful body [harm ther noon is],