A clerke there was, one Tomas Elyot hight;
‘Stearns’ wasse hys middel name; I think him so;
His gowne a cutte severe, sterne, clericale.
Hie werkéd in a banke; but lyked it not;
Preferring farre to be a publysshere.
Hie telleth of another clerke hys love
(thow sadnesse more thanne love, methinks it were..)
J. Alfred Prufrock wasse thys clerkés name;
Hie lyved in melancholie fasshyion,
Of chepesyde inns and wasteland wyndowes fogged;
Hie wasse so timide and soe fulle of feare,
Hie lyved a narrowe lyfe of caushyonne,
Hie knewe no joye, methinks; hym thoghte hymselfe
But born to serve some lorde in defferrense..
This Elyot’s tale wasse shorte; I hoped itte so;
Methogte hysse lyfe but wasted wayle and woe.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/geoff-chaucer-reads-tom-eliot/
