Plague and sores beyond relief

Have pierced me, skin and bone.

I must set up house with grief,

And travel hence alone.

Death has forced me to content

And with a darkness buys me day;

Poverty has paid my rent,

And counts tomorrow for today.

Pity, with those two red eyes,

And sorrow, looking back on me,

Do these errands I devise

To friends whom I shall never see.

One who taught me how to write,

Gerard of Pontlouvain,

Pity, waft what I indite,

And weep, if it be plain.

What he taught me, now I find

Serviceable to my pain,

So beyond my scabby rind

I touch his friendship yet again.

Now there’s nothing sweet or sound

Left about me, but my heart,

Sorrow, as you go your round,

Give him that, and so depart.

Those who catered to my woes

When I was going rotten,

Sorrow, thank, but also those

By whom they were forgotten.

They relieved my body once,

And gave it pleasure in their hour,

And the body I renounce,

But I would not be rude or sour.

Go and tell old Simon Hall,

Now that I peel from head to feet,

With his good men by the wall

I can no longer sit at meat.