O! sely anker, that in thy celle
Iclosed art with stoon and gost not out,
Thou maist ben gladder so for to dwelle
Then I with wanton wandring thus about,
That have me piked, amonges the rout,
An endless woo withouten recomfort,
That of my poore liif I stonde in dout —
Go! dull complaint, my lady this report.

The anker hath no more him for to greve
Then sool, alone, upon the walles stare.
But, welaway! I stonde in more mischeef,
For he hath helthe, and I of helthe am bare.
And, more and more, when I come where ther are
Of faire folkes to se a goodly sort,
A thousandfold that doth encrese my care —
Go! dull complaint, my lady this report.

It doth me thinke, " Yonder is faire of face —
But, what? More faire, yet, is my lady dere!
Yond on is small, and yonde streight sides has,
Her foot is lite, and she hath eyen clere —
But all ther stained my lady, were she here."
Thus thinke I, lo! which doth me discomfort,
Not for the sight, but for I nare hir nere —
Go! dull complaint, my lady this report.

Wo worth them which that raft me hir presence!
Wo worth the time to I to hir resort!
Wo worth is me to be thus in absence!
Go! dull complaint, my lady this report.