John Lydgate was considered to be a very important poet in his own day and for at least a century afterwards: he received many commissions to write poems from patrons in all walks of life; his poetry was widely admired and imitated; he is frequently alluded to, usually in conjunction with Gower and Chaucer, as one of the founding fathers of English poetry; there are many manuscripts of his works. In more recent times he has been more or less universally contemned and become the butt of every jibe, especially for his prolixity and the great bulk of his writing. He now appears like a great whale helplessly beached on the shore of reputation. The tide has gone out, or elsewhere. Nature was resting, and Lydgate was born. What really happened?

The difference of opinion, so stark and apparently inexplicable, is a challenge, and various explanations have been offered, usually involving extremely derogatory estimates of the good sense of Lydgate's fifteenth-century admirers, or else unlikely suggestions as to the merit of his verses. In taking up the challenge, again, one would not want to become embroiled in further debate about whether Lydgate's poetry is any good. There is no need for a debate: it is not very good. It is often dull, especially in long stretches, and it usually comes in long stretches. It is hard work to read, and the most skilful reader, however optimistic he is about Lydgate's versification, will stumble every few lines.