Methynke, alas, that I must be gone
To make my rekenynge, and my dettes paye;
For I se my tyme is nye spent awaye.
Take example, all ye that this do here or se,
How they that I loued best do forsake me,
Excepte my Good Dedes that bydeth truely.
As dusk sifted last week around the bleak brick flats that have replaced the even bleaker dockside slums of London's East End, tired factory workers settling down for another evening in front of the telly were roused by a clangorous racket. Peering into the almost-deserted, cement-paved...