JOHN LYDGATE, THE MONK OF BURY,
IN HIS PROLOGUE TO THE STORY OF THEBES.
(Alluding to the Canterbury Tales.)
FLOWER of Poets, throughout all Britáin !
Which, truth to tell, had most of excellence
In rhetorick and eke in eloquence;
Read ye his rhymes who list the truth to find,
Which never shall grow pale within my mind,
But always fresh be in mine memory.
To whom be given honour, praise, and glory,
Of seeing first the light in our language;
Chief Registrer of this goode Pilgrimage;
All that was told forgetting nought at all,—
Feign'd tales, nor things historial,
With many proverbs, diverse and uncouth,
By the rehearsal of his sugared mouth:
Of eche thing keeping in substance
The sentence whole, withouten variance,
Voiding the chaff, sooth to speak plain—
Enlumining the true, picked, solid grain.
IN THE PROLOGUE TO HIS TRANSLATION OF BOCCACE, ON THE FALL OF PRINCES.
MY maister CHAUCER, with his fresh Comedies
Is dead, alas! chief Poet of Britaine,
That whilom made full piteous Tragedies:
The fall of Princes he did also 'plaine,
As he that was of rhyming sovereign,
Whom all this land should of good right prefer,
Since of our Language he was the Load-star!
And, in like wise, as I have told before,
My maister CHAUCER did his busyness,
And in his dayes he hath so well him borne
Out of our tongue to banish all rudenésse
And to reform with colours of swetenésse :
Wherefore to him let us give laud and glory,
And put his name with Poets in memory.
This said Poete, my Maister, in his dayes
Made and compiled full many a fresh dittee,
Ballads, Complaints, Roundels, and Virélays,
Full delectable to heren and to see:
For which, men should-of right and equitie,
Since he of English in rhyming was the best-
Pray unto God to give his soule good rest.
IN THE PROLOGUE TO HIS BOOK,
BUT welaway! so is mine hearté woe
That the honour of English tongue is dead,
Of whom I counsel had, and help in need.
O, Master deare! and father reverent,
My master CHAUCER, flower of eloquence !
Mirrour of fruitful wisdom and intent,
O, universal father in science,
Alas! that thou thine excellente prudénce,
In thy bed mortal, mightest not bequeath!
What ailéd Death-Alas! why take thy breath?
O, Death! that didest no single evil here
In slaughtre of him—for all the land it smarteth : But ne'ertheless yet haddest thou no powere
His name to slay! His virtue high asserteth
Its right, unslain-(though death this life aye hurteth) With bookes of his enórnate enditíng,
Which are to all this land enlumining.
IN HIS FAIRY QUEEN.-L. 4. CANTO 2. ST. 31, &c.
Courageous Cambel, and stout Triamond
With Canace and Cambine link'd in lovely bond.
WHILOM as antique stories tellen us,
Those two were foes the fellonest on ground,
And battle made, the draddest dangerous,
That ever shrilling trumpet did resound :
Though now their acts be nowhere to be found,
As that renowned poet them compil'd
With warlike numbers, and heroick sound,
Dan CHAUCER (well of English undefiled)
On Fame's eternal bead-roll worthy to be filed.
But wicked Time, that all good thoughts doth waste,
And works of noblest wits to nought out-wear,
That famous Monument hath quite defaced
And robb'd the world of treasure endless dear,
The which might have enriched all us here.
O cursed Eld! the canker-worm of wits;
How may these rhymes (so rude as doth appear)
Hope to endure, sith works of heavenly wits
Are quite devour'd, and brought to nought by little bits.
WHEN that sweet April showers with downward shoot
The drought of March have pierc'd unto the root,
And bathéd every vein with liquid power,
Whose virtue rare engendereth the flower;
When Zephyrus also with his fragrant breath
Inspiréd hath in every grove and heath
The tender shoots of green, and the young sun
Hath in the Ram one half his journey run,
And small birds in the trees make melody,
That sleep and dream all night with open eye;
So nature stirs all energies and ages
That folks are bent to go on pilgrimages,
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