For lo! [rendinge] Muses of poetes endyten to me thinges to be
writen; and drery vers of wrecchednesse weten my face with
5
verray teres. At the leeste, no drede ne mighte overcomen tho
Muses, that they ne weren felawes, and folweden my wey, [that is]
[to seyn], whan I was exyled; they that weren glorie of my youthe,
whylom weleful and grene, comforten now the sorowful [werdes] of
me, olde man. For elde is comen unwarly upon me, hasted by
10
the harmes that I have, and sorow hath comaunded his age to be