Sins you will nedes that I shall sing

Sins you will nedes that I shall sing,
Take yt in worth such as I have ;
Plentye of plaint, mone and morning
Yn depe dispaire, and dedlye payne,
Boteles for boote, crying to crave
To crave yn vayne.

Suche hammers worke within my hed
That sounde nought els into my eris.
But faste at horde, and wake abed;
Suche tune the temper to my song
To waile my wrong, that I wante teris
To waile my wrong.

Deth and dispaire afore my face
My dayes dekaes, my grefe doeth gro;
The cause therof is in this place
Whom cruel tye dothe still restraine
For to rejoise, tho yt be wo
To here me plaine.

A brokin lute, untunid stringes
With such a song maye well here parte,
That nother pleasith him that singes.
Nor theim that here, but her alone,
That with her herte wold straine my herte
To here it grone.

Yf it greve you to here this same.
That you do fele but in my voyse,
Considre then what plesaunt game
I do sustayne in everye parte,
To cause me sing or to rejoyse
Within my herte.