Classic Poem

Yet wulde I nat the causer fared amisse,
For all the good that ever I had or shall.
Therfor I take mine aventure, iwisse,
As she that hath forsaken joyes all,
And to all paine is bothe sojet and thralle.
Lo! thus I stonde, withouten wordes moo,
All voide of joy and full of paine and woo.

Now ye that bathe in mirthe and plesaunce
Have minde on me that was sumtime in ease,
And had the world at mine owne ordinaunce,
Whiche now is turned into all disease.
Now glad were she, that Fortune so coude please,
That she might stonde in verry sicurnesse,
Never to fele the stroke of unkindnesse.

Departing is the grounde of displesaunce
Most in my heart of eny thing erthly.
I you ensure wholy in remembraunce,
Within myself, I thenke it verrily,
Whiche shall continu with me daily.
Sins that ye moste nedes departe me fro,
It is to me a verry dedly woo.