Of which I wont was counsaile haue and reed:
O Master dere, and Fadre reuerent:
My Master Chaucer Floure of Eloquence,
Mirror of fructuous entendement:
O vniuersal fadre of Science:
Alas that thou thine excellent Prudence
In thy Bed mortal mightest not bequeath.
What eyl'd Death, alas why would she the fle?
O Death, thou didst not harm singler in slaughter of him,
But all the Land it smerteth;