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He was imprisoned at Pomfret and executed, 1483.
Somewhat musing And more mourning In remembering The unsteadfastness; This world being Of such wailing Me contrarying, What may I guess? I fear doubtless Remedyless Is now to cease My woeful chance; For unkindness Withouten less And no redress, Me doth advance. With displeasaunce To my great grievance And no surance Of remedy; Lo! in this trance Now in substance Such is my dance, Willing to die. Me thinketh truly Bounden am I And that greatly To be content; Saying plainly, Fortune doth wry All contrary For mine intent. My life was lent To an intent. It is nigh spent; Welcome, fortune! Yet I ne meant Thus to be shent, But she it meant, Such is her wone.