I am a Monk by my profession,
  In Berry, call’d John Lydgate by my name,
  And wear a habit of perfection;
  (Although my life agree not with the same)
    That meddle should with things spiritual,
    As I must needs confess unto you all.

  But seeing that I did herein proceed
  [A]At his command, whom I could not refuse,
  I humbly do beseech all those that read,
  Or leisure have, this story to peruse,
    If any fault therein they find to be,
    Or error, that committed is by me;

  That they will of their gentleness take pain,
  The rather to correct and mend the same,
  Than rashly to condemn it with disdain,
  For well I wot it is not without blame,
    Because I know the Verse therein is wrong,
    As being some too short and some too long.

  For Chaucer, that my Master was, and knew
  What did belong to writing Verse and Prose,
  Ne’re stumbled at small faults, nor yet did view
  With scornful eye the Works and Books of those
    That in his time did write, nor yet would taunt
    At any man, to fear him or to daunt.

[Footnote A:  Hen. 5.]

Now if you would know further of him, hear him in his Prologue to the Story of Thebes, a Tale (as his Fiction is) which (or some other) he was constrained to tell, at the command of mine Host of the Tabard in Southwark, whom he found in Canterbury, with the rest of the Pilgrims which went to visit Saint Thomas shrine.

This Story was first written in Latine by Geoffry Chaucer, and translated by Lydgate into English Verse, but of the Prologue of his own making, so much as concerns himself, thus: 

——­While that the Pilgrims lay At Canterbury, well lodged one and all, I not in sooth what I may it call, Hap or fortune, in conclusioun, That me befell to enter into the Toun, The holy Sainte plainly to visite, After my sicknesse, vows to acquite.  In a Cope of blacke, and not of greene, On a Palfrey slender, long, and lene, With rusty Bridle, made not for the sale, My man to forne with a voyd Male, That by Fortune tooke my Inne anone Where the Pilgrimes were lodged everichone, The same time her governour the host Stonding in Hall, full of wind and bost, Liche to a man wonder sterne and fers, Which spake to me, and said anon Dan Pers, Dan Dominick, Dan Godfray, or Clement, Ye be welcome newly into Kent:  Thogh your bridle have nother boos ne bell; Beseeching you, that ye will tell First of your name, and what cuntre Without more shortly that ye be, That looke so pale, all devoid of bloud, Upon your head a wonder thred-bare Hood, Well arrayed for to ride late:  I answered my Name was Lydgate Monke of Bury, me fifty yeare of age, Come to this Town to do my Pilgrimage As I have hight, I have thereof no shame: