What menythe thys, when I lye alone

What menythe thys, when I lye alone
I tosse, I turn, I syght, I grone,
My bedd me semys as hard as stone,
What menys thys?

I syght, I playne contynually.
The clothes that on the bedd do ly
Always methynk they lye awry,
What menys thys?

In slumbers oft for fere I quake,
Ffor hete and cold, I burne and shake,
Ffor lake of slepe my hede dothe ake,
What menys thys?

A mornynges then when I do ryse,
I torne unto my wonted gyse,
All day after muse and devyse
What menys thys?

And if perchance by me there passe
She unto 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 is dome and dry.
What menys thys?

To aske ffor 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?