JOHN LYDGATE.
Reading edition
John Lydgate was born in a Village of the same name, not far off St. Edmondsbury, a Village (saith Cambden) though small, yet in this respect not to be passed over in silence, because it brought into the World John Lydgate the Monk, whose Wit may seem to have been framed and fashioned by the very Muses themselves: so brightly reshine in his English Verses, all the pleasant graces and elegancy of Speech, according to that Age. After some time spent in our English Universities, he travelled through France and Italy, improving his time to his great accomplishment, in learning the Languages and Arts; Erat autem non solum elegans Poeta, & Rhetor disertus, verum etiam Mathematicus expertus, Philosophus acutus, & Theologus non contemnendus: he was not only an elegant Poet, and an eloquent Rhetorician, but also an expert Mathematician, an acute Philosopher, and no mean Divine, saith Pitseus. After his return, he became Tutor to many Noblemens Sons, and both in Prose and Poetry was the best Author of his Age, for if Chaucer's Coin were of greater Weight for deeper Learning, Lydgate's was of a more refined Stantard for purer Language; so that one might mistake him for a modern Writer. But because none can so well describe him as himself, take an Essay of his Verses, out of his Life and Death of Hector, pag. 316 and 317.
I am a Monk by my profession, In Berry, call'd John Lydgate by my name, And wear a habit of perfection; (Although my life agree not with the same) That meddle should with things spiritual, As I must needs confess unto you all. But seeing that I did herein proceed [A]At his command, whom I could not refuse, I humbly do beseech all those that read, Or leisure have, this story to peruse, If any fault therein they find to be, Or error, that committed is by me; That they will of their gentleness take pain, The rather to correct and mend the same, Than rashly to condemn it with disdain, For well I wot it is not without blame, Because I know the Verse therein is wrong, As being some too short and some too long. For Chaucer, that my Master was, and knew What did belong to writing Verse and Prose, Ne're stumbled at small faults, nor yet did view With scornful eye the Works and Books of those That in his time did write, nor yet would taunt At any man, to fear him or to daunt.
[A] Hen. 5.
Now if you would know further of him, hear him in his Prologue to the Story of Thebes, a Tale (as his Fiction is) which (or some other) he was constrained to tell, at the command of mine Host of the Tabard in Southwark, whom he found in Canterbury, with the rest of the Pilgrims which went to visit Saint Thomas shrine.
This Story was first written in Latine by Geoffry Chaucer, and translated by Lydgate into English Verse, but of the Prologue of his own making, so much as concerns himself, thus:
——While that the Pilgrims lay At Canterbury, well lodged one and all, I not in sooth what I may it call, Hap or fortune, in conclusioun, That me befell to enter into the Toun, The holy Sainte plainly to visite, After my sicknesse, vows to acquite. In a Cope of blacke, and not of greene, On a Palfrey slender, long, and lene, With rusty Bridle, made not for the sale, My man to forne with a voyd Male, That by Fortune tooke my Inne anone Where the Pilgrimes were lodged everichone, The same time her governour the host Stonding in Hall, full of wind and bost, Liche to a man wonder sterne and fers, Which spake to me, and said anon Dan Pers, Dan Dominick, Dan Godfray, or Clement, Ye be welcome newly into Kent: Thogh your bridle have nother boos ne bell; Beseeching you, that ye will tell First of your name, and what cuntre Without more shortly that ye be, That looke so pale, all devoid of bloud, Upon your head a wonder thred-bare Hood, Well arrayed for to ride late: I answered my Name was Lydgate Monke of Bury, me fifty yeare of age, Come to this Town to do my Pilgrimage As I have hight, I have thereof no shame: Dan John (quoth he) well brouke ye your name, Thogh ye be sole, beeth right glad and light, Praying you to soupe with us this night; And ye shall have made at your devis, A great Pudding, or a round hagis, A Franche Moile, a Tanse, or a Froise, To been a Monk slender is your [A]coise, Ye have been sick I dare mine head assure, Or let feed in a faint pasture. Lift up your head, be glad, take no sorrow, And ye should ride home with us to morrow, I say, when ye rested have your fill. After supper, sleep will doen none ill, Wrap well your head, clothes round about, Strong nottie Ale will make a man to rout; Take a Pillow, that ye lye not low; If nede be, spare not to blow; To hold wind, by mine opinion, Will engender colles passion, And make men to greven on her [B]rops, When they have filled her maws and her crops; But toward night, eate some Fennell rede, Annis, Commin, or Coriander-seed, And like as I have power and might, I charge you rise not at midnight, Thogh it be so the Moon shine clere, I will my self be your [C]Orlogere, To morrow early, when I see my time, For we will forth parcel afore prime, Accompanie [D]parde shall do you good.
[A] Countenance.
[B] Guts.
[C] Clock.
[D] Verily.
But I have digressed too far: To return therefore unto Lydgate. Scripsit partim Anglice, partim Latine; partim Prosa, partim Versu Libros numero plures, eruditione politissimos. He writ (saith my Author) partly English, partly Latine; partly in Prose, and partly in Verse, many exquisite learned Books, saith Pitseus, which are mentioned by him and Bale, as also in the latter end of Chaucer's Works; the last Edition, amongst which are Eglogues, Odes, Satyrs, and other Poems. He flourished in the Reign of Henry the Sixth, and departed this world (aged about 60 years) circiter An. 1440. and was buried in his own Convent at Bury, with this Epitaph,
Mortuus sæclo, superis Superstes, Hic jacet Lydgate tumulætus Urna: Qui fuit quondam celebris Britannæ Fama Poesis. Dead in this World, living above the Sky, Intomb'd within this Urn doth Lydgate lie; In former time fam'd for his Poetry, All over England.