Virelay. <1>

ALONE walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb’ring Of my living; My death wishing Both early and late.

Infortunate Is so my fate, That, wot ye what? Out of measure My life I hate; Thus desperate, In such poor estate, Do I endure.

Of other cure Am I not sure; Thus to endure Is hard, certain; Such is my ure,* *destiny <2> I you ensure; What creature May have more pain?

My truth so plain Is taken in vain, And great disdain In remembrance; Yet I full fain Would me complain, Me to abstain From this penance.

But, in substance, None alleggeance* *alleviation Of my grievance Can I not find; Right so my chance, With displeasance, Doth me advance; And thus an end.

Notes to Virelay

1. (Transcriber’s note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer was not the author of this poem)

2. Ure: “heur,” or destiny; the same word that enters into “bonheur” and “malheur.” (French: happiness & unhappiness)