In The Stars Is Written The Death

Ther Nis No Werkman, Whatsoevere He Be, That May Bothe Werke Wel And Hastily.

Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of Gilt Spurs Maketh No Knight.

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.

This World Nys But A Thurghfare Ful Of Wo, And We Been Pilgrymes, Passynge To And Fro.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.