Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/50

 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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