Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.

Soun Is Noght But Air Ybroken, And Every Speche That Is Spoken, Loud Or Privee, Foul Or Fair, In His Substaunce Is But Air; For As Flaumbe Is But Lighted Smoke, Right So Soun Is Air Ybroke.

Harde Is His Heart That Loveth Nought In May.

I Am Right Sorry For Your Heavinesse.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.