But All Thing Which That Shineth As

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.

And She Was Fair As Is The Rose In May.

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

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Longe To Lerne. Th' Assay So Hard, So Sharp The Conquerynge, The Dredful Joye, Alwey That Slit So Yerne; Al This Mene I Be Love... For Out Of Olde Feldes, As Men Seith, Cometh Al This New Corn Fro Yeer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokes, In Good Feith, Cometh Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

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.