So Was Hir Jolly Whistel Wel Y-wette.

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

The Guilty Think All Talk Is Of Themselves.

Great Peace Is Found In Little Busy-ness.

For Out Of Old Fields, As Men Saith, Cometh All This New Corn From Year To Year; And Out Of Old Books, In Good Faith, Cometh All This New Science That Men Learn.

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.