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And more richly beseen, by many fold,
She was also, in every manir thing;
Upon hir hede, full plesaunt to behold,
A coron of gold rich for any king;
A braunch of agnus castus eke bering
In hir hand; and, to my sight, trewily,
She lady was of all the company.

For then the nightingale, that all the day
Had in the laurir sete, and did hir might
The whole service to sing longing to May;
All sodainly began to take her flight;
And to the lady of the Lefe forthright,
She flew, and set her on hir hand softly;
Which was a thing I mervail'd at gretly.

The goldfinch, eke, that fro the medlar tre
Was fled, for hete, unto the bushis cold,
Unto the lady of the Flowre gan fle,
And on hir hond he set him, as he wold;
And plesauntly his wingis gan to fold.
And for to sing they peine them both as sore,
As they had do of all the day before.

And so these ladies rode forth a grete pace,
And all the rout of knightis eke in fere,
And I, that had sene all this wondir case,
Thought that I would assay, in some manere,
To know fully the trouth of this mattere,
And what they were that rode so plesauntly;
And when they were the herbir passed by,

I drest me forth; and happid mete, anon,
A right fair lady, I do you ensure;
And she came riding by herself, alone,
Alle in white, with semblaunce full demure.
I hir salued, bad hir gode avinture
Mote hir befall, as I coud most humbly.

And she answerid, "My doughter! gramercy!"

"Madame!" (quoth I) "if that I durst enquere Of you, I wold, fain, of that company

Wit what they be that passed by this harbere." And she ayen answerid, right frendly:

"My doughtir all tho, that passid hereby, In white clothing, be servants everichone, Unto the Lefe, and I myself am one."

"And as for hir that crounid is in grene,
It is Flora, of these flouris goddesse.
And all that here, on her awaiting, bene,-
It are such folk that lovid idlenesse,

And not delite in no kind besinesse

But for to hunt, and hawke, and pley in medes,
And many othir such like idle dedes."

For now I am ascertain'd thoroughly
Of every thing I desirid to knowe.

I am right glad that I have said, sothly,
Ought to your plesure, if ye will me trow.
(Quod she ayen.) "But to whom do ye owe
Your service, and which wollin ye honour
(Pray tell me) this year, the Lefe or the Flour?"

"Madam!" (quod I) "although I lest worthy, Unto the Lefe I ow mine observaunce." "That is," (quod she) "right well done, certainly, And I pray God to honour you advance, And kepe you fro the wickid remembraunce

Of Malebouch, and all his cruiltie;

And all that gode and well conditioned be.

"For here I may no lengir now abide,
But I must follow the grete company
That ye may se yondir before you ride."
And forthwith, as I couth, most humily
I toke my leve of hir. And she gan hie
After them as fast as evir she might,

And I drow homeward, for it was nigh night.

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JOHN LYDGATE-the Monk of Bury-was a native of Suffolk, and born, it is supposed, in 1375. He was educated at Oxford, and having travelled in France and Italy, acquired such complete mastery over the languages of those countries, that he was induced to open a school in his monastery-the Benedictine Abbey of St. Edmund's Bury. He died probably in 1461; having enjoyed during his long life a high reputation, and "found favour" in the sight of kings and people.

A list of his works would be a very long catalogue of publications in every shape and on every subject to which poetry can be made subservient - ballads, hymns, humorous tales, allegories, romances, legends, chronicles, histories, lives of saints, and records of heroes, masques for kings, may-games for lord mayors, pageants for holy festivals, carols for coronations, and "disguisings" for trades-companies :"cart-loads" of rubbish, according to a modern critic, who had more learning than taste, and who has enumerated his works, genuine and supposititious, to the almost incredible number of two hundred and fifty-one. He was not only a poet, but a skilful rhetorician, an astronomer, a theologian, a geometrician, and a philosopher-and in these various arts as well as those of composition and versification, instructed the sons of the nobility and the monastic students.

Although the immediate successor-indeed the contemporary-of Chaucer, he is infinitely below the immortal poet in strength of intellect, richness of fancy, and purity of style; yet he is the only writer of his age, if we except Gower, to whom the English language is indebted for the maintenance of its vigour. His poetry is heavy and diffuse, and for the most part languid and elaborately tedious;-a great story he compares to a great oak, which is not to be attacked with a single stroke, but by "a longe processe;" and he disclaims the notion of composing in "a stile briefe and compendious." Nevertheless, it would be easy to find among his lengthened and numerous productions passages of exceeding beauty, descriptions natural and true, characters finely conceived and ably developed, and verse smooth, even to elegance. His principal poems are "the Fall of Princes"--which undoubtedly suggested to Sackville the idea of "the Mirrour for Magistrates;" "the Story of Thebes," written as a continuation of the Canterbury Tales of "his Master;" "the Lyfe of our Lady; and "the Boke of Troy, being the onely trewe and syncere Chronicle of the Warres betwixt the Grecians and Troyans." They are all translations, or rather adaptations, from the Italian and French.

A few extracts may serve to satisfy the reader. A perusal of any one of his productions would scarcely compensate for the necessary labour. He is now almost forgotten; although in his own day his popularity was unbounded, and his fame continued unimpaired for nearly two centuries. It is somewhat singular that an age which had received and read the poems of Geoffrey Chaucer, should have so devoutly admired the writings of John Lydgate; for although by no means "the prosaic and drivelling monk," or the "stupid poetaster," which some recent annotators have described him, he is, compared with his great predecessor, as a dull, gloomy and unproductive day, to a spring morning of alternate sun and shower.

His works were originally printed by Caxton, Thinne and Pinson; and although many of them were written in early life, he appears not to have attained his highest eminence until nearly sixty years old.

After Lydgate, if we except Hawes and Skelton, who whimsically but accurately described his own rhymes as

"ragged,

Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten,
Rusty and moth-eaten,"

the history of our poetry is that of a barren plain, until we receive the greeting of those twin-brothers in fame and affection-Wyat and Surrey; and are led by them into a garden, limited indeed in extent, but of exceeding richness and beauty. The Muse appears meanwhile to have quitted the South and to have sojourned, for a time, in the cold North. James the First, it is true, can scarcely be set aside from the list of English Poets-inasmuch as in England he acquired the "lore" in which he so greatly excelled, but Scotland, after this period, contended for superiority, and attained it.

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AND sayng after on the next nyght
Whyle they slepte at thir lodgyng place,
Came an Aungel, appearyng with grete light,
And warned them that they mought ne trace
By Herodes, but that they should
pace
Withouten tarrying, in al the haste they may,
To her kyngdome by another waye.

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The Faders voyce, as clerkes oft endyte,
Cam down to erthe that men myght here;
And lyke a dove with fayr federis whyte,
The Holy Ghoost also dyd appere,
And Crest Jesu the Faders sone entere,
This day apperyng in our mortal kynde,
Was of Saynt John baptyst as I fynde.

And for as moche as they al thre
This day were sene by sothfast apparence,
They beyng one in parfyte unyte;
Wherfour this day of moste reverence
Namyd is trewly in this sentence
Theophanos, for God in treble wyse,
Therin apperyd as ye have herde devyse.

For theos is as moche for to mene

As God in Englysshe, yf ye list to see,
And phanos, as shewyng withouten were,
As ye have herde afore rehersyd of me;
For on erthe a God in trynyte

This day apperyd withouten ony lye,
Ye truly may it calle Theophanye.

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AND she stant naked in a wavy sea,
Environ her with goddesses three,
That be assign'd with busy attendance
To wait on her and do her observance.
And floures freshe, blue, red, and white,
Be her about, the more for to delight.
And on her heade she hath a chaplet
Of roses red full pleasantly yset,

And from the heade down unto her foot
With sundry gums and ointementes soote
She is enointe, sweeter for to smell.
And all alofte, as these poets tell,

Be doves white, fleeing, and eke sparrows,
And her beside Cupyde with his arrows.

FORTUNE.

And thus this lady, wilful and reckless,
As she that is froward and perverse,
Hath in her cellar drinkes full diverse.
For she to some, of fraud and of fallas,
Ministreth piment, bawme, and ypocras;

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