Tell me, he sayde, the cause of my trouble,
And of my wo be nothynge afrayde.
Me thynke that sorowe hath you overlayde:
Dryve of no lenger, but tell me your mynde,
It may me happe a remedy to fynde.
A, a! quod I, it vayleth not your speche,
I wyll wyth you never have medlynge.
Let me alone, the most unhappy wretche
Of all the wretches that is yet lyvynge.
Suche is the chaunce of my bewaylyng;