The Lyf So Short, The Craft So

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.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

Whoso Will Pray, He Must Fast And Be Clean, And Fat His Soul, And Make His Body Lean.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.