Murder Will Out, This My Conclusion.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Long To Lerne.

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.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

But All Thing Which That Shineth As The Gold Ne Is No Gold, As I Have Herd It Told.

One Shouldn't Be Too Inquisitive In Life Either About God's Secrets Or One's Wife.