O owght on absence, ther foolys have no grace,
I mene mysylf, nor yet no wytt to gwye
Theym owt of peyne to com on to that place,
Wher as presence may shape a remedye;
For al dysease, now fye on my folye,
For I dyspeyryd am of your soone metyng,
That God I prey me to your presence bryng.
Farwell, my lord, for I may wryght no more,
So trowblyd is my hert with hevynesse;
Envye also, it grewyth me most sore,