John Lydgate (1370 – 1449)
English poet and translator.
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Trouthe wil out maugre of fals enuye,
Rihtwysnesse may nat ben hid certeyn,
As for a tyme it may been ovirleyn.
Who lesethe his fredam, in faith! he loseth all.
He as a kyng is crowned in Fairie,
With sceptre and suerd, & with his regalie
Shal resorte as lord and souereyne,
Out of Fairye & regne in Breteyne,
And repaire ageyn the Rounde Table.
The wheel of Fortune tourneth as a ball;
Sodeyn clymbyng axeth a sodeyn fall.
Harde to likke hony out of a marbil stoon,
For ther is nouthir licour nor moisture.
For he owre englishe gilte with his sawes,
Rude and boistous firste be olde dawes,
That was ful fer from al perfeccioun
And but of litel reputacioun
Til that he cam, and thorugh his poetrie,
Gan oure tonge firste to magnifie
And adourne it with his eloquence:
To whom honour, laude and reuerence.
A prowde hert in a beggers brest,
A fowle visage with gay temples of atyre,
Horrible othes with an holy prist,
A justice of juges to selle and lete to hyre,
A knave to comande and have an empire,
To yeve a jugement of that never was wrought,
To preche of pees and sette eche man on fyre,
It may wele ryme but it accordith nought.
A wikked tonge wol alway deme amis.
Woord is but wynd; leff woord and tak the dede.
For princis ofte, of furious hastynesse,
Wil cachche a quarrel, causeless in sentence,
Ageyn folk absent, thouh ther be non offence.
For a story which is nat pleynli told,
But constreynyd undir woordes fewe
For lak off trouthe, wher thei be newe or olde,
Men bi report kan nat the mater shewe.
There is no rose
Spryngyng in gardeyns, but ther be sum thorn.
For hit ys oft seyde by hem that yet lyues
He must nedys go that the deuell dryues.
Off oure language he was the lodesterre.
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