Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We

And As For Me, Thogh That I Can But Lyte, On Bakes For To Rede I Me Delyte, And To Hem Yeve I Feyth And Ful Credence, And In Myn Herte Have Hem In Reverence So Hertely, That Ther Is Game Noon, That Fro My Bokes Maketh Me To Goon, But Hit Be Seldom, On The Holyday; Save, Certeynly, When That The Month Of May Is Comen, And That I Here The Foules Singe, And That The Floures Ginnen For To Springe, Farwel My Book And My Devocion.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.

The Cat Would Eat Fish But Would Not Get Her Feet Wet.

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

Oon Ere It Herde, At Tother Out It Went.