Allas! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Dethe by thy deth hath harm irreparable
Unto us done: hir vengeable duresse
Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
Of rethoryk; for unto Tullius
Was never man so like amonges us.
Also who was heyr in philosofye
To Aristotle in our tunge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in poesye
Thou folwedest eke, men wote wel ynow.
Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow—
Wolde I slayn were!—Dethe, was to hastyf
To renne on thee and reve thee thy lyf.
She might han taried hir vengeance a whyle
Til that some man had egal to thee be;
Nay, let be that! she knew wel that this yle
May never man bring forthe like to thee,
And her office nedes do mote she:
God bad hir do so, I truste for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thy soule reste!
— Thomas Hoccleve
1368?-1448
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