THOMAS HOCCLEVE
i 368-9? -1450? 17 Lament for Chaucer
ATLAS' my worthi maistcr honorable, This landes verray tresor and richcsse! Dcth by thy dcth hath harme irreparable Unto us done hir vengeable duresse Dibpoilcd hath this londe of the swetnesse Of rethoryk, for unto Tullius Was never man so like amonges us.
Also who was hicr in philosophic
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou ?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
Thou folwedest ceke, men wot wel ynow.
That combre-world that thec my maister t>low
Woldc I slayne were' Deth, was to ha^tyfe
To renne on dice and reve the thi lyfe . . .
She myght han taried hir vengeaunce a while
Til that som man had cgal to the be,
Nay, lat be that' schc knew wel that this yle
May never man forth bryngc like to the,
And hir office nedes do mot she.
God bade hir so, I tru i te as for the beste,
O maister, maistcr, God thy soulc rcste'
hier] heir. combre-world] encumberer of earth,
slow] slew.
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