Lament for Chaucer

Allas! 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 philosophie

To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?

The steppes of Virgile in poesie

Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.

Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow—

Wolde I slayn were!—Deth, was to hastyf

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

She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while

Til that sum man had egal to the be;

Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle

May never man forth brynge lyk to the,

And hir office needes do mot she:

God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;

O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!