WYCLIFFE
[To Chaucer.]
Friend, how seems it thee?
CHAUCER
Sir, with your pardon,
To me, our England is still “Merry England!”
Which nature cirqued with its green wall of seas
To be her home and hearth-stone; where no slave,
Though e’er he crept in her lap, was nursed of her;
But the least peasant, bow’d in lonely fief,