John Lydgate Poems
- Vox Ultima Crucis TARYE no lenger; toward thyn heritage ...
- The London Lackpenny To London once my steps I bent, Where ...
- The Testament Of John Lydgate ... Beholde, o man! lyft ...
- That Now Is Hay Some-Tyme Was ... Who clymbeth hyest gothe ...
- The Floure Of Curtesye In Feverier, whan the frosty ...
John Lydgate of Bury was a monk and poet, born in Lidgate, Suffolk, England.
Lydgate is at once a greater and a lesser poet than John Gower. He is a greater poet because of his greater range and force; he has a much more powerful machine at his command. The sheer bulk of Lydgate's poetic output is prodigious, amounting, at a conservative count, to about 145,000 lines. Life at the monastery of Bury St. Edmund's, where he spent most of his life, gave him a leisure that many another poet might have envied, and enabled him to explore and establish every major Chaucerian genre, except such as were manifestly unsuited to his profession, like the fabliau. In the Troy-book (30,117 lines),... more »
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Comments about John Lydgate
Vox Ultima Crucis
TARYE no lenger; toward thyn heritage
Hast on thy weye, and be of ryght good chere.
Go eche day onward on thy pylgrymage;
Thynke howe short tyme thou hast abyden here.
Thy place is bygged above the sterres clere,
Noon erthly palys wrought in so statly wyse.
Come on, my frend, my brother most entere!
For the I offered my blood in sacryfice.