Geoffrey Chaucer
London, England
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A Complaint To His Lady

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In the long night, when every creature should
naturally take some rest, or else his life cannot long
hold out, then it falls most into my woeful thoughts
how I have dropped so far behind that except death
nothing can comfort me, so do I despair of all
happiness. This thought remains with me until
morning, and forth from morning until eve. I need
borrow no grief; I have both leisure and leave to
mourn. There is no creature who will take my woe or
forbid me to weep enough and wail my fill; the sore
spark of pain destroys me.
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Monday, February 9, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: woman
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