Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/40

 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.

12. sclat] slate     THOMAS HOCCLEVE  1368-9?-1450? 13. 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. 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

13. hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew.