You sang your songs and you said your say.
Lashed to labor by devil Debt,
All were manful, and some were gay.
What, old Chaucer! a royal jest
Once you made in your laughing verse:
“No more goldfinch-song in the nest—
Autumn nest of the empty purse!”
Master Spenser, your looks are spare;
Princes’ favors, how fleet they be!
Thinking that yours was the selfsame fare,