Love and fortune and my mynde, remembr

Love and fortune and my mynde, remembr
Of that that is nowe, with that, that hath ben,
Do torment me so that I very often
Envy theim beyonde all mesure.

Love sleith myn hert; fortune is depriver
Of all my comfort ; the folisshe mynde then
Burneth and plaineth, as one that sildam
Lyveth in rest still in displeasure.

My pleasaunt dayes they flete away and passe,
But daily yet the ill doeth chaunge into the wours ;
And more than the half is run of my cours.

Alas, not of steill, but of brickell glasse,
I see that from myn hand falleth my trust :
And all my thoughtes are dasshed into dust.