Death Is The End Of Every Worldly

Thus With Hir Fader For A Certeyn Space Dwelleth This Flour Of Wyfly Pacience, That Neither By Hir Wordes Ne Hir Face Biforn The Folk, Ne Eek In Her Absence, Ne Shewed She That Hir Was Doon Offence.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

Men Love Newfangleness.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Long To Lerne.

Yet Do Not Miss The Moral, My Good Men. For Saint Paul Says That All That’s Written Well Is Written Down Some Useful Truth To Tell. Then Take The Wheat And Let The Chaff Lie Still.