This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

I Am Not The Rose, But I Have Lived Near The Rose.

Ful Wys Is He That Kan Hymselven Knowe.

Take A Cat, Nourish It Well With Milk And Tender Meat, Make It A Couch Of Silk.

The Bisy Larke, Messager Of Day.

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.