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| ALLAS! my worthy maister honorable, | |
| This londes verray tresour and richesse, | |
| Dethe by thy dethe hath harme irreperable | |
| Unto us done, hir vengeable duresse | |
| Dispoiled hath this londe of swetnesse | 5 |
| Of rethoryk fro us, to Tullius | |
| Was never man so like amonge us. | |
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| Also who was hyer in philosofye | |
| To Aristotle in our tunge but thow? | |
| The steppes of Virgile in poysye | 10 |
| Thou folwedest eke, men wote wele ynow. | |
| That combreworld that my maister slow, | |
| Wolde I slayne were! dethe was to hastyfe, | |
| To renne on the and reve the thy lyfe. | |
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| Dethe hath but small consideracion | 15 |
| Unto the vertuous, I have espied, | |
| Nomore, as sheweth the probacion, | |
| Than to a vicious maister losell tried, | |
| Amonge an hepe every man is maistried; | |
| With hir as wele the poore as the riche, | 20 |
| Lered and lewde, all stonden eliche. | |
| |
| She myght han taryed hir vengeaunce a while | |
| Til that som man hade egall to the be. | |
| Nay, lete be that! she knewe wele that this yle | |
| May never man bryng forthe like to the, | 25 |
| And hir office nedes do mote she; | |
| God bade hir do so, I truste for the beste, | |
| O maister, maister, God thy soule reste! | |
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