Some tyme I fled the fyre that me brent
By see, by land, by water and by wynd,
And now I folow the coles that be quent
From Dovor to Calais against my mynde.
Lo, how desire is boeth sprang and spent!
And he may se that whilome was so blynde,
And all his labor now he laugh to scorne,
Mashed in the breers that erst was all to torne.