_John Lydgate_ was born in a Village of the same name, not far off St. _Edmondsbury_, a Village (saith _Cambden_) though small, yet in this respect not to be passed over in silence, because it brought into the World _John Lydgate_ the Monk, whose Wit may seem to have been framed and fashioned by the very Muses themselves: so brightly reshine in his _English_ Verses, all the pleasant graces and elegancy of Speech, according to that Age. After some time spent in our _English_ Universities, he travelled through _France_ and _Italy_, improving his time to his great accomplishment, in learning the Languages and Arts; _Erat autem non solum elegans Poeta, & Rhetor disertus, verum etiam Mathematicus expertus, Philosophus acutus, & Theologus non contemnendus_: he was not only an elegant Poet, and an eloquent Rhetorician, but also an expert Mathematician, an acute Philosopher, and no mean Divine, saith _Pitseus_. After his return, he became Tutor to many Noblemens Sons, and both in Prose and Poetry was the best Author of his Age, for if _Chaucer's_ Coin were of greater Weight for deeper Learning, _Lydgate's_ was of a more refined Stantard for purer Language; so that one might mistake him for a modern Writer. But because none can so well describe him as himself, take an Essay of his Verses, out of his _Life and Death of_ Hector, _pag._ 316 and 317. I am a Monk by my profession, In _Berry_, call'd _John Lydgate_ by my name, And wear a habit of perfection; (Although my life agree not with the same) That meddle should with things spiritual, As I must needs confess unto you all. But seeing that I did herein proceed [A]At his command, whom I could not refuse, I humbly do beseech all those that read, Or leisure have, this story to peruse, If any fault therein they find to be, Or error, that committed is by me; That they will of their gentleness take pain, The rather to correct and mend the same, Than rashly to condemn it with disdain, For well I wot it is not without blame, Because I know the Verse therein is wrong, As being some too short and some too long. For _Chaucer_, that my Master was, and knew What did belong to writing Verse and Prose, Ne're stumbled at small faults, nor yet did view With scornful eye the Works and Books of those That in his time did write, nor yet would taunt At any man, to fear him or to daunt. [Footnote A: _Hen._ 5.] Now if you would know further of him, hear him in his Prologue to the Story of _Thebes_, a Tale (as his Fiction is) which (or some other) he was constrained to tell, at the command of mine Host of the _Tabard_ in _Southwark_, whom he found in _Canterbury_, with the rest of the Pilgrims which went to visit Saint _Thomas_ shrine. This Story was first written in _Latine_ by _Geoffry Chaucer_, and translated by _Lydgate_ into _English_ Verse, but of the Prologue of his own making, so much as concerns himself, thus: