ALLAS! my worthi maister honorable,
This landes verray tresor and richesse!
Deth by thy deth
hath harme irreparable
Unto us done: hir vengeable duresse
Dispoiled hath this londe of the swetnesse
rethoryk; for unto Tullius
Was never man so like amonges us.
Also who was hier1 in philosophie
To Aristotle in our tonge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in
Thou folwedest eeke, men wot wel ynow.
That combre-world2 that thee my maister slow3
I slayne were!Deth, was to hastyfe
To renne on thee and reve the thi lyfe ...
She myght han taried hir vengeaunce a while
Til that som man had egal to the be;
be that! sche knew wel that this yle
May never man forth brynge like to the,
And hir office nedes do mot
God bade hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thy soule reste!
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