And, after him, my mayster Lydgate, The monke of Bury, dyd hym wel apply Both to contryve and eke to translate; And of vertue ever in especyally, For he dyd compyle than full ryally Of our blessed lady the conversacion, Saint Edmunde’s life martred with treson. Of the fall of prynces, ryght wofully He did endyte in all piteous wyse, Folowynge his auctoure Bocas rufully; A ryght greate boke he did truly compryse, A good ensample for us to dispyse This worlde, so ful of mutabilyte, In whiche no man can have a certente. And thre reasons ryght greatly profytable Under coloure he cloked craftely; And of the chorle he made the fable That shutte the byrde in a cage so closely, The pamflete sheweth it expressely; He fayned also the courte of Sapyence, And translated wyth al his dylygence The grete boke of the last destruccyon Of the cyte of Troye, whylome so famous, How for woman was the confusyon; And betwene vertue and the lyfe vycyous Of goddes and goddes, a boke solacyous He did compyle, and the tyme to passe, Of love he made the bryght temple of glasse. Were not these thre gretly to commende, Whyche them applyed such bokes to contryve, Whose famous draughtes no man can amende? The synne of slouth they dyd from them dryve, After theyr death for to abyde on lyve In worthy fame by many a nacyon, Their bokes theyr actes do make relacyon. O mayster Lydgate, the most dulcet sprynge Of famous rethoryke, wyth balade ryall, The chefe orygynal of my lernyng, What vayleth it on you for to call Me for to ayde, now in especiall; Sythen your body is now wrapte in chest, I pray God to gyve your soule good rest. O what losse is it of suche a one! It is to grete truely me for to tell; Sythen the tyme that his lyfe was gone, In al this realme his pere did not dwell; Above al other he did so excell, None sith his time in arte wolde succede, After their death to have fame for their mede. But many a one is ryght well experte In this connyng, but upon auctoryte, They fayne no fables pleasaunt and covert, But spende theyr time in vaynful vanyte, Makynge balades of fervent amyte. As gestes and tryfles wythout frutefulnes; Thus al in vayne they spende their besynes. I, lytell or nought expert in poetry, Of my mayster Lydgate wyll folowe the trace, As evermore so his name to magnyfy Wyth suche lytle bokes, by Goddes grace, If in this worlde I may have the space; The lytell connyng that his grace me sente In tyme amonge in suche wyse shall be spente. And yet nothinge upon presumpcyon My mayster Lydgate I wyll not envy, But all onely is mine entencyon With suche labour my selfe to occupy; As whyte by blacke doth shyne more clerely, So shal theyr matters appeare more pleasaunt Besyde my draughtes rude and ignoraunt. CAP. XV. OF ARSMETRIKE.