naught flitte, by the leste poynt of gemetrye; so sadly is it
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†souded, that away from your service in love may he not departe.
O love, whan shal I ben plesed? O charitee, whan shal I ben
esed? O good goodly, whan shal the dyce turne? O ful of
vertue, do the chaunce of comfort upwarde to falle! O love,
whan wolt thou thinke on thy servaunt? I can no more but here,
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out-cast of al welfare, abyde the day of my dethe, or els to see the
sight that might al my wellinge sorowes voyde, and of the flode