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¶ A comendacion of Chaucers. Capitulo. xxxiiii. (Book 34)
ANd eke my maister Chaucers nowe is gre¦ue
The noble rethore / Poete of Britaine
That worthy was / the laurer to haue
Of Poetrie / and the palme attayne
That made firste / to distille and rayne
The golde dewe dropes / of speche & eloquence
In to our tonge / thrugh his excellence.
¶ And fonde the floures / firste of rethorike
Our rude speche / onely to enlumine
That in our tonge / was neuer none hym lyke
For as the sonne / dothe in heuen shyne
In mydday spere / downe to vs by lyne
In whose presence / no sterre may appere
Right so his dyttes / withouten any pere?
¶ Euery makinge / with his light distayne
In sothfastnes / who so taketh hede
Wherfore no wonder / though myne herte playne
Upon his deth / and for sorowe blede
For want of hym / nowe in my greate nede
That sholde alas / conueye and directe
And with his supporte / amende and correcte.
¶ The wronge traces / of my rude penne
There as I erre / and go not lyne right
But that for he / ne may me na•• k••nne
I can nomore / but with all my might