What menythe thys when I lye alone?
I tosse, I turne, I syghe, I grone,
My bedd me semys as hard as stone:
What menys thys?
I syghe, I playne contynually;
The clothes that on my bedd do ly
Always methynks they lye awry:
What menys thys?
In slumbers oft for fere I quake;
For hete and cold I burne and shake;
For lake of slepe my hede dothe ake;
What menys thys?
A mornynges then when I do rysse
I torne vnto my wontyd gysse,
All day after muse and devysse:
What menys thys?
And yff perchanse by me there passe
She vnto whome I sue for grace,
The cold blood forsakythe my face:
What menythe thys?
But yff I sytte nere her by,
With lowd voyce my hart dothe cry,
And yet my mowthe ys dome and dry:
What menys thys?
To aske for helpe no hart I have
My tong dothe fayle what I shuld crave,
Yet inwardly I Rage and Rave:
What menys thys?
Thus have I passyd many a yere,
And many a day, tho nowght Apere
But most of that that most I fere:
What menys thys?