Very little of the poetry of the fifteenth century is worthy of a different fate from that which has befallen it. Possibly the Wars of the Roses may in some measure account for the barrenness of the time; but I do not think they will explain it. In the midst of the commotions of the seventeenth century we find Milton, the only English poet of whom we are yet sure as worthy of being named with Chaucer and Shakspere. It is in quality, however, and not in quantity that the period is deficient. It had a good many writers of poetry, some of them prolific. John Lydgate, the monk of Bury, a great imitator of Chaucer, was the principal of these, and wrote an enormous quantity of verse. We shall find for our use enough as it were to keep us alive in passing through this desert to the Paradise of the sixteenth century--a land indeed flowing with milk and honey. For even in the desert of the fifteenth are spots luxuriant with the rich grass of language, although they greet the eye with few flowers of individual thought or graphic speech. Rather than give portions of several of Lydgate's poems, I will give one entire--the best I know. It is entitled, _Thonke God of alle_.[36] THANK GOD FOR ALL. By a way wandering as I went, Well sore I sorrowed, for sighing sad; Of hard haps that I had hent Mourning me made almost mad;[37] Till a letter all one me lad[38], That well was written on a wall, A blissful word that on I rad[39], That alway said, 'Thank God for[40] all.' And yet I read furthermore[41]-- Full good intent I took there till[42]: Christ may well your state restore; Nought is to strive against his will; _it is useless._ He may us spare and also spill: Think right well we be his thrall. _slaves._ What sorrow we suffer, loud or still, Alway thank God for all. Though thou be both blind and lame, Or any sickness be on thee set, Thou think right well it is no shame-- _think thou._ The grace of God it hath thee gret[43]. In sorrow or care though ye be knit, _snared._ And worldés weal be from thee fall, _fallen._ I cannot say thou mayst do bet, _better._ But alway thank God for all. Though thou wield this world's good, And royally lead thy life in rest, Well shaped of bone and blood, None the like by east nor west; Think God thee sent as him lest; _as it pleased him._ Riches turneth as a ball; In all manner it is the best _in every condition._ Alway to thank God for all. If thy good beginneth to pass, And thou wax a poor man, Take good comfort and bear good face, And think on him that all good wan; _did win._ Christ himself forsooth began-- He may renew both bower and hall: No better counsel I ne kan _am capable of._ But alway thank God for all.