Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully, That ye ben of my lyf and deeth the quene; For with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene. Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beautè of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene. 2. REJECTION So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced; I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne; So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne. Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed So greet beautè, that no man may atteyne To mercy, though he sterve for the peyne. So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne; For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne. 3. ESCAPE Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. halt] holdeth. He may answere, and seye this or that; I do no fors, I speke right as I mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene. Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat, And he is strike out of my bokes clene For ever-mo; ther is non other mene. Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene. _12._ sclat] slate THOMAS HOCCLEVE 1368-9?-1450? _13._ _Lament for Chaucer_ Allas! my worthi maister honorable, This landes verray tresor and richesse! Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable Unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse Despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse Of rethorik; for unto Tullius Was never man so lyk amonges us. Also who was hier in philosophie To Aristotle in our tonge but thou? The steppes of Virgile in poesie Thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow. That combre-worlde that the my maister slow-- Wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf To renne on thee and reve the thi lyf ... _13._ hier] heir. combre-worlde] encumberer of earth. slow] slew. She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while Til that sum man had egal to the be; Nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle May never man forth brynge lyk to the, And hir office needes do mot she: God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste; O maister, maister, God thi soule reste! JOHN LYDGATE 1370?-1450? _14._ _Vox ultima Crucis_ Tarye no lenger; toward thyn heritage Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere. Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage; Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here. Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere, Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse. Come on, my frend, my brother most entere! For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.