John Lydgate (c. 1370–c. 1451) was an English poet and translator. He is considered one of the leading English poets of the 15th century, and in his own day was often ranked alongside his master, Geoffrey Chaucer.
22 quotes found
"All is not golde that outward shewith bright."
"A wikked tonge wol alway deme amis."
"Who lesethe his fredam, in faith! he loseth all."
"A prowde hert in a beggers brest, A fowle visage with gay temples of atyre, Horrible othes with an holy prist, A justice of juges to selle and lete to hyre, A knave to comande and have an empire, To yeve a jugement of that never was wrought, To preche of pees and sette eche man on fyre, It may wele ryme but it accordith nought."
"Woord is but wynd; leff woord and tak the dede."
"For love is mor than gold or gret richesse; Gold faileth ofte; love wol abyde."
"For he owre englishe gilte with his sawes, Rude and boistous firste be olde dawes, That was ful fer from al perfeccioun And but of litel reputacioun Til that he cam, and thorugh his poetrie, Gan oure tonge firste to magnifie And adourne it with his eloquence: To whom honour, laude and reuerence."
"Odyous of olde been comparisonis."
"Harde to likke hony out of a marbil stoon, For ther is nouthir licour nor moisture."
"Trouthe wil out maugre of fals enuye, Rihtwysnesse may nat ben hid certeyn, As for a tyme it may been ovirleyn."
"For a story which is nat pleynli told, But constreynyd undir woordes fewe For lak off trouthe, wher thei be newe or olde, Men bi report kan nat the mater shewe."
"Off oure language he was the lodesterre."
"There is no rose Spryngyng in gardeyns, but ther be sum thorn."
"For princis ofte, of furious hastynesse, Wil cachche a quarrel, causeless in sentence, Ageyn folk absent, thouh ther be non offence."
"He as a kyng is crowned in Fairie, With sceptre and suerd, & with his regalie Shal resorte as lord and souereyne, Out of Fairye & regne in Breteyne, And repaire ageyn the Rounde Table."
"The wheel of Fortune tourneth as a ball; Sodeyn clymbyng axeth a sodeyn fall."
"For hit ys oft seyde by hem that yet lyues He must nedys go that the deuell dryues."
"Also Johnn Lydgate Wryteth after an hyer rate; It is dyffuse to fynde The sentence of his mynde, Yet wryteth he in his kynd, No man that can amend Those maters that he hath pende; Yet some men fynde a faute, And say he wryteth too haute."
"Comparable with Chawcer, yet more occupyed in supersticious and odde matters than was requesite in so good a wytte."
"In images of horror, and in a certain terrible greatness, our author comes far behind Chaucer. Whether they were not suited to the genius or the temper of Lydgate, I do not determine; but it is certain that, though they naturally seemed to present themselves, he has almost generally chose to avoid them: yet is there frequently a stiller kind of majesty both in his thought and expression, which makes one of his principal beauties."
"He is the first of our writers whose style is cloathed with that perspicuity, in which the English phraseology appears at this day to an English reader…Whether his subject be the life of a hermit or a hero, of saint Austin or Guy earl of Warwick, ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory, he writes with facility."
"A voluminous, prosaick, and drivelling Monk."