Classic Poem

Allas, deth! Who made thee so hardy
To take awey the most nobill princesse,
Which comfort was of my liif and body--
Mi wele, my joy, my plesere and ricchesse?
But syn thou hast biraft me my maystres,
Take me, poore wrecche, hir cely serviture,
For levyr had y hastily forto dy
Than langwysshe in this karfull tragedy
In payne, sorowe, and woofull aventure!

Allas! Nad she of eche good thing plenté,
Flowryng in youthe and in hir lustynes?
I biseche God, acursid mote thou be,
O false Deth, so full of gret rudenes!
Had thou hir taken in unweldynes,
As had thou not ydoon so gret rigure;
But thou, alak, hast take hir hastily,
And, welaway! this left me pitously
In payne, sorow, and wooful aventure.

Allas! alone am y out compané!
Fare well, my lady, fare well, my gladnes!
Now is the love partid twix yow and me--
Yet, what for then, y make yow here promes
That with prayers y shall of gret larges
Here serve yow ded while my liif may endure,
Out forgetyng in slouthe, or slogardy,
Biwaylyng oft yowre deth with wepyng ey,
In payne, sorow, and wofull aventure.

O God, that lordist every creature,
Graunt of thi grace thi right forto mesure
On alle the offens she hath doon wilfully,
So that the good sowle of hir now not ly
In payne, sorow, and wofull aventure.