With sight of you I am into it brought.
And to my selfe as I made complainte,
I espyed a man ryght nere me beforne,
Whyche right anone dyd wyth me acquaynt.
Me thynke, he sayde, that ye are nere forlorne,
Wyth inwarde payne that your heart hath borne.
Be not to pensyfe; call to mynde agayne
How of one sorowe ye do now make twayne.
Myne inwarde sorowe ye begyn to double;
Go your waye, quod I, for ye can not me ayde.