And in each bark engrav’d Eliza’s name.
And yet for all, this unregarding soil
Unlaced the line of his desired life,
Denying maintenance for his dear relief;
Careless even to prevent his exequy,
Scarce deigning to shut up his dying eye.
Ing. Pity it is that gentler wits should breed,
Where thick-skinn’d chuffs laugh at a scholar’s need.
But softly may our honour’d ashes rest,
That lie by merry Chaucer’s noble chest.