In thought plaining,
And sore sighing;
Of my living;
My death wishing
Both early and late.
Is so my fate,
That, wot ye what?
Out of measure
My life I hate;
In such poor estate,
Do I endure.
Of other cure
Am I not sure;
Thus to endure
Is hard, certain;
Such is my ure,
I you ensure;
May have more pain?
My truth so plain
Is taken in vain,
And great disdain
Yet I full fain
Would me complain,
Me to abstain
From this penance.
But, in substance,
Of my grievance
Can I not find;
Right so my chance,
Doth me advance;
And thus an end.
Geoffrey Chaucer's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Virelay by Geoffrey Chaucer )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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David Herbert Lawrence
(11 September 1885 – 2 March 1930)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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