Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

And For To See, And Eek For To Be Seie.

Full Wise Is He That Can Himselven Knowe.

Of Alle The Floures In The Mede, Than Love I Most These Floures Whyte And Rede, Swiche As Men Callen Daysies In Our Toun. . . . . Til That Myn Herte Dye. . . . . That Wel By Reson Men Hit Calle May The 'dayesye' Or Elles The 'ye Of Day,' The Emperice And Flour Of Floures Alle. I Pray To God That Faire Mot She Falle, And Alle That Loven Floures, For Hir Sake!

But Al Be That He Was A Philosophre, Yet Hadde He But Litel Gold In Cofre.

. . . If Gold Rust, What Then Will Iron Do?/ For If A Priest Be Foul In Whom We Trust/ No Wonder That A Common Man Should Rust. . . .