Thomas Occleve

"If that thise men that lovers hem pretende, To women weren feythfull good and trewe, And dreden hem to deceyven or offende, Women, to love hem, wolde nat eschewe; But every day hath man an herte newe: Yt, upon oon, abide can no while. What fore ys it, swich a wight to be-gile?"

"For the more paart, youthe is rebel, Un-to reson & hatith her doctryne."

"O yowthe allas why wilt thow nat enclyne, And un-to reuled reform bowe thee? Syn resoun is the verray streighte lyne Þat ledith folk un-to felicitee."

"Many a servant un-to his lord seith, "Þat al the world spekith of him honour," Whan the contrarie of þat is sooth, in feith."

"O maister deere and Fadir reverent, Mi maister Chaucer, flour of eloquence, Mirour of fructuous entendement, O, universel fadir in science! Allas! þat þou thyn excellent prudence In þi bed mortel mightist naght by-qwethe; What eiled deth? allas! whi wolde he sle the?"

"With bookës of his ornat endytyng, That is to al þis land enlumynyng."

"And fadir Chaucer fayn wolde han me taght; But I was dul and lernèd lite or naght. Allas! my worthi maister honorable, This landës verray tresor and richesse."

"Who was hiër in philosophie To Aristotle, in our tonge, but thow?"

"The firste fyndere of our faire langage."