What deth is worse then this

What deth is worse then this.
When my delight,
My wele, my joy, my blys,
Is from my sight?
Boeth daye and night,
My liff alas I mys.

Ffor though I seme alyve.
My hert is hens;
Thus botles for to stryve,
Oute of presens
Of my defens
Towerd my deth I dryve.

Hertles, alas, what man
May long endure?
Alas how lyve I then?
Syns no recure
May me assure
My liff I may well ban.

Thus doeth my torment goo
In dedly dred,
Alas, who myght lyve so
Alyve as dede,
Alyve to lede
A dedly lyff in woo.