Ther may no myrthe my care releve.
Alas, the tyme that I was borne!
The swerde of sorwe myn hert doth cleve.
Primus consolator. ffor his dere love that alle that wrought,
Ses sumtyme of ȝour wepynge,
And putt alle thynge out of thought,
Into this care that ȝow doth brynge.
Secundus consolator. ȝe do ȝourself ryght grett hyndrynge,
And short ȝoure lyff or ȝe beware;
ffor Goddys love, ses of ȝour sorwynge,