Tyll cruell dethe depart yt up on tweyn.
Adew dysport, farwell good companye,
In all thys world ther is no joye I weene;
For ther as whyleom I sye with myn iee,
A lusty lord leepyng upon a grene,
The soyle is soole, no knyghts ther be seen,
No ladyse walk ther they wer wont to doone;
Alas, some folk depertyd hense to soone.
Some tyme also men myght a wageor make,
And with ther bowys a ffeld have it tryed,