Thomas Hoccleve: ‘Lament for Chaucer’

Alas! My worthy honorable master,

this land's true treasure and wealth!
Death has done irreparable harm
to us by your death: her vengeful harshness
has despoiled this land of the sweetness
of speech; for there was never a man among us
so like Cicero.

Also who was heir to Aristotle in philosophy

in our language, except for you?
You followed Virgil's steps in poetry too,
as people know well enough.
That world's burden that killed my master--
I wish I were killed!-- Death, was too quick
to run at you and steal your life...

She might have held off her vengeance a while

till someone was equal to you;
no, forget that! She well knew that this island
may never bring forth another man like you,
and she had to do her job:
God told her to, I trust for the best;
O master, master, God rest your soul!

The original poem below:

Allas! my worthi maister honorable,

this landes verray tresor and richesse!
Deth by thy deth hath harme irreparable
unto us doon: hir vengeable duresse
despoiled hath this land of the swetnesse
of rethorik; for unto Tullius
was never man so lyk amonges us.

Also who was hier in philosophie

to Aristotle in our tonge but thou?
The steppes of Virgile in poesie
thou folwedist eeke, men wot wel ynow.
Thou combre-worlde that the my maister slow--
wolde I slayn were!--Deth, was to hastyf
to renne on thee and reve the thi lyf...

She myghte han taried hir vengeance a while

til that sum man had egal to the be;
nay, lat be that! sche knew wel that this yle
may never man forth brynge lyk to the,
and hir office needes do mot she:
God bad hir so, I truste as for the beste;
O maister, maister, God thi soule reste!