The Regiment of Princes

"O, maister deere, and fadir reverent! Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence, Mirour of fructuous entendement, O, universel fadir in science! Allas! that thou thyn excellent prudence In thi bed mortel mightist naght byqwethe; What eiled Deth? Allas! whi wolde he sle the? "O Deth! thou didest naght harme singuleer In slaghtere of him; but al this land it smertith; But nathelees, yit hast thou no power His name sle; his hy vertu astertith Unslayn fro the, which ay us lyfly hertyth, With bookes of his ornat endytyng, That is to al this land enlumynyng. "Hast thou nat eeke my maister Gower slayn, Whos vertu I am insufficient For to descreyve? I woot wel in certayn, For to sleen al this world thou haast yment; But syn our lorde Crist was obedient To the, in feith I can no ferther seye; His creatures mosten the obeye." Simple is my goost, and scars my letterure, Unto your excellence for to write Myn inward love, and yit in aventure Wyle I me putte, thogh I can but lyte. Mi dere maistir—God his soule quyte!— And fadir, Chaucer, fayn wolde han me taght; But I was dul, and lerned lite or naght. Allas! my worthi maister honorable, This landes verray tresor and richesse, Deth, by thi deth, hath harme irreparable Unto us doon; hir vengeable duresse Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethorik; for un-to Tullius Was never man so lyk a-monges us. Also, who was hier in philosophie To Aristotle, in our tonge, but thow? The steppes of Virgile in poesie Thow filwedist eeke. Men wot wel y-now That combre-world that the, my maistir, slow. Wold I slayn were! Deth was to hastyf To renne on the, and reve the thi lyf. She myghte han taried hir vengeance awhile, 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 thi beste; O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!