The Guilty Think All Talk Is Of

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

Certain, When I Was Born, So Long Ago, Death Drew The Tap Of Life And Let It Flow; And Ever Since The Tap Has Done Its Task, And Now There's Little But An Empty Cask.

Oon Ere It Herde, At Tother Out It Went.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Longe To Lerne. Th' Assay So Hard, So Sharp The Conquerynge, The Dredful Joye, Alwey That Slit So Yerne; Al This Mene I Be Love... For Out Of Olde Feldes, As Men Seith, Cometh Al This New Corn Fro Yeer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokes, In Good Feith, Cometh Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

Great Peace Is Found In Little Busy-ness.