A Love Grown Old Is Not The

For Hym Was Levere Have At His Beddes Heed Twenty Bookes, Clad In Blak Or Reed, Of Aristotle And His Philosophie, Than Robes Riche, Or Fithele, Or Gay Sautrie.

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire Yreken.