If Were Not Foolish Young, Were Foolish

Nature, The Vicar Of The Almighty Lord.

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

At The Ches With Me She (fortune) Gan To Pleye; With Her False Draughts (pieces) Dyvers/she Staal On Me, And Took Away My Fers. And When I Sawgh My Fers Awaye, Allas! I Kouthe No Lenger Playe.

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.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!