Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

Alas, Alas, That Ever Love Was Sin! I Ever Followed Natural Inclination Under The Power Of My Constellation And Was Unable To Deny, In Truth, My Chamber Of Venus To A Likely Youth.

Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote The Droghte Of March Hath Perced To The Roote.

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.

Pitee Renneth Soone In Gentil Herte.