Poete hault, loenge destruye, En ton jardin ne seroye qu'ortie: Consideré ce que j'ay dit premier Ton noble plant, ta douce mélodie, Mais pour sçavoir, de rescripre te prie, Grant translateur, noble Geffroy Chaucier.' Gower alludes to Chaucer in the first edition of the Confessio Amantis; see the passage discussed in vol. iii. p. 414. Henry Scogan wrote 'a moral balade' in twenty-one 8-line stanzas, in which he not only refers to Chaucer's poetical skill, but quotes the whole of his Balade on Gentilesse; see vol. i. p. 83. Hoccleve frequently refers to Chaucer as his 'maister,' i. e. his teacher, with great affection; and, if he learnt but little more, he certainly learnt the true method of scansion of his master's lines, and imitates his metres and rimes with great exactness. The passages relating to Chaucer are as follows[179]. (1) From the Governail of Princes, or De Regimine Principum (ed. Wright, p. 67, st. 267):-- 'Thou were acqueynted with Chaucer, pardee-- God save his soule--best of any wight.' (2) From the same, p. 75, stanzas 280, 281-283, 297-299, 301:-- 'But weylawey! so is myn herte wo That the honour of English tonge is deed, Of which I wont was han conseil and reed. O maister dere and fader reverent, My maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence, Mirour of fructuous entendement, O universel fader in science, Allas! that thou thyn excellent prudence In thy bed mortel mightest not bequethe! What eyled Deeth? Allas! why wolde he slee thee? O Deeth! thou didest not harm singuler In slaghtre of him, but al this land it smerteth! But nathelees, yit hast thou no powèr His name slee; his hy vertu asterteth Unslayn fro thee, which ay us lyfly herteth With bokes of his ornat endyting, That is to al this land enlumining.... My dere maister--God his soule quyte-- and fader, Chaucer, fayn wolde han me taught; But I was dul, and lernede right naught[180]. Allas! my worthy maister honorable, This landes verray tresor and richesse! Deeth, by thy deeth, hath harm irreparable Unto us doon; hir vengeable duresse Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethoryk; for unto[181] Tullius Was never man so lyk amonges us. Also who was heyr[182] in philosophye To Aristotle, in our tonge, but thou? The steppes of Virgyle in poesye Thou folwedest eek, men wot wel y-now. That combre-world, that thee (my maister) slow-- Wolde I slayn werë--Deeth, was to hastyf To renne on thee, and reve thee thy lyf.... She mighte han taried hir vengeance a whyle Til that som man had egal to thee be; Nay, lat be that! she knew wel that this yle May never man forth bringe lyk to thee, And hir offyce nedes do mot she: God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste; O maister, maister, God thy soule reste! (3) From the same, p. 179, stanzas 712-4:--