My Master Chaucer, with his fresh Comedies,
Is dead alas, chief Poet of Brittaine,
That whilom made full pitous Tradgedies,
The faule of Princes he did complaine,
As he that was of making Soveraine;
Whom all this Land should of right preferre
Sith of our Language he was the load-sterre.
Also in his Book which he writeth of the Birth of the Virgin Mary, he hath these Verses.
And eke my Master Chaucer now is in grave,
The noble Rhetore, Poet of Britaine,