I fynde no peace and all my warr is done,
I fere and hope, I burn and freise like yse,
I fley above the wynde yet can I not arrise,
And noght I have and all the worold I seson.
That loseth nor locketh, holdeth me in prison
And holdeth me not, yet can I scape no wise;
Nor letteth me lyve nor dye at my devise
And yet of deth it gyveth me occasion.
Withoute Iyen I se and withoute tong I plain,
I desire to perisshe and yet I aske helthe,
I love an othre and thus I hate my self,
I fede me in sorrowe and laugh in all my pain,
Likewise displeaseth me boeth deth and lyffe,
And my delite is causer of this stryff.