If that thise men that lovers hem pretende,To women weren feythfull good and trewe,And dreden hem to deceyven or offende,Women, to love hem, wolde nat eschewe;But every day hath man an herte newe:Yt, upon oon, abide can no while.What fore ys it, swich a wight to be-gile?
If those men who to be lovers pretendBehaved more faithfully and did not lie,And dreaded to deceive or to offend,Then women might not choose to pass them by.But each man's heart's a fickle butterflyWhich can alight on one just a short while.Can it be wrong in this case to beguile?
For the more paart, youthe is rebel,Un-to reson & hatith her doctryne.Thomas Occleve
O yowthe allas why wilt thow nat enclyne,And un-to reuled reform bowe thee?Syn resoun is the verray streighte lyneÞat ledith folk un-to felicitee.Thomas Occleve
Many a servant un-to his lord seith,"Þat al the world spekith of him honour,"Whan the contrarie of þat is sooth, in feith.Thomas Occleve
O maister deere and Fadir reverent,Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence,Mirour of fructuous entendement,O, universel fadir in science!Allas! þat þou thyn excellent prudenceIn þi bed mortel mightist naght by-qwethe;What eiled deth? allas! whi wolde he sle the?Thomas Occleve
With bookës of his ornat endytyng,That is to al þis land enlumynyng.Thomas Occleve
Who was hiër in philosophieTo Aristotle, in our tonge, but thow?Thomas Occleve
And fadir Chaucer fayn wolde han me taght;But I was dul and lernèd lite or naght.Allas! my worthi maister honorable,This landës verray tresor and richesse.Thomas Occleve
The firste fyndere of our faire langage.Thomas Occleve