The frosty grave and cold must be my bedde,
Without ye list your grace and mercy shewe,
980
Deth with his axe so faste on me doth hewe.
So greet disese and in so litell whyle,
So litell joy, that felte I never yet;
And at my wo Fortune ginneth to smyle,
That never erst I felt so harde a fit:
985
Confounded ben my spirits and my wit,