ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable, <br />This landes verray tresor and richesse! <br />Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable <br />Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse <br />Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse <br />Of rethorik; for unto Tullius <br />Was never man so lyk amonges us. <br /> <br />Also who was hier in philosophie <br />To Aristotle in our tonge but thou? <br />The steppes of Virgile in poesie <br />Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. <br />Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow-- <br />Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf <br />To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf... <br /> <br />She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while <br />Til that sum man had egal to the be; <br />Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this y1e <br />May never man forth brynge lyk to the, <br />And hir office needes do mot she: <br />God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste; <br />O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!<br /><br />Thomas Hoccleve<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lament-for-chaucer/
