The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

One Flesh They Are; And One Flesh, So I'd Guess, Has But One Heart, Come Grief Or Happiness.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.

Remember In The Forms Of Speech Comes Change Within A Thousand Years, And Words That Then Were Well Esteemed, Seem Foolish Now And Strange; And Yet They Spake Them So, Time And Again, And Thrived In Love As Well As Any Men; And So To Win Their Loves In Sundry Days, In Sundry Lands There Are As Many Ways.

What Is Better Than Wisdom? Woman. And What Is Better Than A Good Woman? Nothing.

Thus With Hir Fader For A Certeyn Space Dwelleth This Flour Of Wyfly Pacience, That Neither By Hir Wordes Ne Hir Face Biforn The Folk, Ne Eek In Her Absence, Ne Shewed She That Hir Was Doon Offence.