Epistle to Mastre Canynge on Ælla

'Tys songe bie mynstrelles, thatte yn auntyent tym,
Whan Reasonn hylt herselfe in cloudes of nyghte,
The preeste delyvered alle the lege yn rhym;
Lyche peyncted tyltynge speares to please the syghte,
The whyche yn yttes felle use doe make moke dere,
Syke dyd theire auncyante lee deftlie delyghte the eare.

Perchaunce yn Vyrtues gare rhym mote bee thenne,
Butt eefte nowe flyeth to the odher syde;
In hallie preeste apperes the ribaudes penne,
Inne lithie moncke apperes the barronnes pryde:
But rhym wythe somme, as nedere widhout teethe,
Make pleasaunce to the sense, botte maie do lyttel scathe.

Syr Johne, a knyghte, who hath a barne of lore,
Kenns Latyn att fyrst syghte from Frenche or Greke,
Pyghtethe hys knowlachynge ten yeres or more,
To rynge upon the Latynne worde to speke.
Whoever spekethe Englysch ys despysed,
The Englysch hym to please moste fyrste be latynized.

Vevyan, a moncke, a good requiem synges;
Can preache so wele, eche hynde hys meneynge knowes
Albeytte these gode guyfts awaie he flynges,
Beeynge as badde yn vearse as goode yn prose.
Hee synges of seynctes who dyed for yer Godde,
Everych wynter nyghte afresche he sheddes theyr blodde.

To maydens, huswyfes, and unlored dames,
Hee redes hys tales of merryment & woe.
Loughe loudlie dynneth from the dolte adrames;
He swelles on laudes of fooles, tho' kennes hem soe.
Sommetyme at tragedie theie laughe and synge,
At merrie yaped fage somme hard-drayned water brynge.

Yette Vevyan ys ne foole, beyinde hys lynes.
Geofroie makes vearse, as handycraftes theyr ware;
Wordes wythoute sense fulle grossyngelye he twynes,
Cotteynge hys storie off as wythe a sheere;
Waytes monthes on nothynge, & hys storie donne,
Ne moe you from ytte kenn, than gyf you neere begonne.

Enowe of odhers; of mieselfe to write,
Requyrynge whatt I doe notte nowe possess,
To you I leave the taske; I kenne your myghte
Wyll make mie faultes, mie meynte of faultes, be less.
ÆLLA wythe thys I sende, and hope that you
Wylle from ytte caste awaie, whatte lynes maie be untrue.

Playes made from hallie tales I holde unmeete;
Lette somme greate storie of a manne be songe;
Whanne, as a manne, we Godde and Jesus treate,
In mie pore mynde, we doe the Godhedde wronge.
Botte lette ne wordes, whyche droorie mote ne heare,
Bee placed yn the same. Adieu untylle anere.