 | A poem in praise of John Lydgate |  |
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A POEM IN PRAISE OF LIDGATE, WRITTEN BY BENEDICT BURGH BEFORE THEY WERE ACQUAINTED.
[Written by] Masr. Burgh in þe prays of Iohn Lidgate [OMITTED] booke dwelyng at wyndsor.
1
Nat dremyd I in ye mount of pernaso,ne dranke I nevar at pegases welle,
the pale pirus saw I never also
ne wist I nevar where ye muses dwelle,
Ne of goldyn tagus can I no thynge telle;
And to wete my lippis I cowde not atteyne
In Cicero, or Elicon sustres tweyne.
2
The crafte of speche that some tyme formde w[e]sOf the famous philosophers [m]oste perfite,
Aristotell, Gorge, and ermogenes,
Nat have I, so I have lerid but a lite;
As for my party, thowgh I repent, I may go qwite.
Of tullius, frauncis, & quintilian
fayne wolde I lere, but I not conceyve can.
3
The noble poete virgile the mantuan,Omere the greke, and torqwat sovereyne,
Naso also that sith this worlde firste be-gan
the marvelist transformynge all best can devyne,
Terence ye mery and pleasant theatryne,
Porcyus, lucan, marycan, and orace,
Stace, Juvenall, and the lauriate bocase,
4
All thes hathe peyne, youre Innate sapience,Ye have gadred flouris in this motli mede,
to yow is yeven the verray price of excellence,
thowghe they be go yet the wordis be not dede;
then lumynyd boke where in a man shall rede
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Ye be the same, ye be the goldyn bible.
5
O yet I truste to be holde & seethis blisful booke with ye golden clasppes seven,
ther I wyll begyne and lerne myne a. b. c.;
that were my paradyse, that wer my heuen,
gretar filicitie can no man neven,
so god my sowle save ‘di benedicite.’
Maister lidgate, what man be ye?
6
Now God, my maister, preserve yow longe on lyve,that yet I may be your prentice or I dye,
then sholde myne herte at ye porte of blise aryve;
ye be the flowre and tresure of poise,
the garland of Ive, and laure of victorye.
by my trowghte, & I myght ben a emperour,
for your konynge I shulde your heres honor.
7
Writen at thabbey of bylegh, chebri place,With frosti fingers, and nothynge pliaunt,
when from the high hille, I men ye mount Canace,
was sent in to briton the stormy persaunt
that made me loke as lede, & chaunge semblaunt,
And eke ye sturdi wynde of Yperborye,
Made me of chere, vnlusti sadde & sory.
8
The laste moneth that men clepe decembre,When phebus share was driven a boute ye heven,
yf we reken a ryght & well remembre,
four tymes onys, & aftar ward seven,
that is to sey passid ther was days aleven
Of the moneth when this vnadvisid lettar
writ was, but with your helpe here aftar bettar.
| A poem in praise of John Lydgate | |