Thys scrybe she sittes, mich bored at hyr deske Wuld rather be at knyttyng or at reste Or mayhap hyr fydle to employe To playe a tune for othres to enjoyeAlack, she sittes wyth paperes left to pushe But dreameth oft of songe and dance and suche She longeth for the workenweke to ende Tomorrow it be Frydaye, saye Aymen!