GEOFFREY CHAUCER

He may answere, and seye this or that;

I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, And he is strike out of my bokes clene For ever-mo ; ther is non other mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

��THOMAS HOCCLEVE

1368-9?-! 450?

zj. Lament Jor Chaucer

A LLAS! my worthi maister honorable,

• • This landes verray tresor and richesse !

Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable Unto us doon : hir vengeable duresse Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethorik ; for unto Tullius Was never man so lyk amonges us.

Also who was hier in philosophic

To Aristotle in our tonge but thou ?

The steppes of Virgile in poesie

Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.

That combre-worlde that the my maister slow

Wolde I slayn were! Deth, was to hastyf

To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf . . .

12. sclat] slate. ij. hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew. H

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