Death Is The End Of Every Worldly

For In Their Hearts Doth Nature Stir Them So Then People Long On Pilgrimage To Go And Palmers To Be Seeking Foreign Strands To Distant Shrines Renowned In Sundry Lands.

All Good Things Must Come To An End.

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.

Ful Wys Is He That Kan Hymselven Knowe.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.