Boece (Book I, Metrum 1, 1-17)

Allas! I wepynge, am constreyned to bygynnen vers of sorwful matere, that whilom in florysschyng studie made delitable ditees. For lo, rendynge muses of poetes enditen to me thynges to ben writen, and drery vers of wretchidnesse weten my face with verray teres. At the leeste, no drede ne myghte overcomen tho muses, that thei ne were felawes, and folwyden my wey (that is to seyn, whan I was exiled). They that weren glorie of my youthe, whilom weleful and grene, conforten nowe the sorwful wyerdes of me, olde man. For eelde is comyn unwarly uppon me, hasted by the harmes that Y have, and sorwe hath comandid his age to ben in me. Heeris hore arn schad overtymeliche upon myn heved, and the slakke skyn trembleth of myn emptid body.

Boece (Book I, Prosa 1, 1-17)

In the mene while that I, stille, recordede these thynges with myself and merkid my weply compleynte with office of poyntel, I saw, stondynge aboven the heghte of myn heved, a womman of ful gret reverence by semblaunt, hir eien brennynge and cleer-seynge over the comune myghte of men; with a lifly colour and with swich vigour and strengthe that it ne myghte nat ben emptid, al were it so that she was ful of so greet age that men ne wolden nat rowen in no manere that she were of oure elde. The stature of hire was of a doutous jugement, for somtyme sche constreyned and schronk hirselven lik to the comune mesure of men, and somtyme it semede that sche touchede the hevene with the heghte of here heved.

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