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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John Lydgate Poems
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.
The London Lackpenny
To London once my steps I bent, Where truth in no wise should be faint; To Westminster-ward I forthwith went,
The Testament of John Lydgate
... Beholde, o man! lyft up thyn eye and see What mortall peyne I suffre for thi trespace. With pietous voys I crye and sey to the:
That now is hay some-tyme was grase
Who clymbeth hyest gothe ofte base, Ensample in medowes thow mayst se That nowe is heye some tyme was grase.
The Floure of Curtesye
In Feverier, whan the frosty moone Was horned, ful of Phebus firy lyght, And that she gan to reyse her streames sone, Saynt Valentyne, upon thy blisful nyght
Comments about John Lydgate
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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.