And Gladly Wolde He Lerne, And Gladly

Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day By Day.

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.

Soun Is Noght But Air Ybroken, And Every Speche That Is Spoken, Loud Or Privee, Foul Or Fair, In His Substaunce Is But Air; For As Flaumbe Is But Lighted Smoke, Right So Soun Is Air Ybroke.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.