This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.

Of Alle The Floures In The Mede, Than Love I Most These Floures Whyte And Rede, Swiche As Men Callen Daysies In Our Toun. . . . . Til That Myn Herte Dye. . . . . That Wel By Reson Men Hit Calle May The 'dayesye' Or Elles The 'ye Of Day,' The Emperice And Flour Of Floures Alle. I Pray To God That Faire Mot She Falle, And Alle That Loven Floures, For Hir Sake!

In The Stars Is Written The Death Of Every Man.

Of Harmes Two The Lesse Is For To Cheese.