apparent: "history" and "story" are after all the same word. We do not know if Lydgate thought of his work as translating, versifying, or embellishing, or a combination of all three:
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| | For in metring though ther be ignoraunce, Yet in the story ye may fynde plesaunce Touching substaunce of that myn auctour wryt. (TB.V.34913493)
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But he is quite clear about the all-important purpose of it: in the tale one can recognize the instability of Fortune, murder, falsehood, treason, rape, adultery,
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| | As in this boke exaumple ye shal fynde . . . How al passeth and halt here no sojour, Wastyng away as doth a somer flour. (V.35653568)
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The truth of the message, the moral, is what matters. One would be hard put to state the moral of Troilus and Criseyde . Lydgate articulates and illustrates the truisms admired in his age without the ability to embody them in memorable language. With the exception of his Life of Our Lady , where his verse rises to some beautiful ornate effects, the only line of Lydgate that stays in the memory is from a lyric, "All stant on chaunge like a midsommer roose"and his editor suggests that this line is probably proverbial. Lydgate is, in a manner of speaking, the poet of the proverb, the earnest truism offered without Chaucerian irony or any exploration of complexity.
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Thomas Hoccleve, a minor government official from 1387 until his death in 1426, grew up in the long shadow cast by Chaucer. His oeuvre is peculiar: some occasional and religious verse; a translation of Christine de Pisan's L'Epistre au Dieu d'Amours (1399); a semi-serious confessional poem, La Male Règle ; a version of the Speculum principis ; and a curious linked sequence of stories known today as the Series . Hoccleve is very insecure: he raises his voice in compliment and assent, rather than in Chaucer's tone of amused intimacy, and the occasions he celebrates are much more public. He seems to have aspired to join in the literary game of pretending to defend women, but where Chaucer is too wily to be nailed to a position, Hoccleve merely seems confused. The Letter of Cupid can only be seen as an attack on women by the exercise of giant ingenuity, and Hoccleve's pretended fear of women's angry
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