Great Peace Is Found In Little Busy-ness.

Nature, The Vicar Of The Almighty Lord.

But, Lord Crist! Whan That It Remembreth Me Upon My Yowthe, And On My Jolitee, It Tickleth Me Aboute Myn Herte Roote. Unto This Day It Dooth Myn Herte Boote That I Have Had My World As In My Tyme. But Age, Alias! That Al Wole Envenyme, Hath Me Biraft My Beautee And My Pith. Lat Go, Farewel! The Devel Go Therwith! The Flour Is Goon, Ther Is Namoore To Telle; The Bren, As I Best Kan, Now Most I Selle.

There Was The Murdered Corpse, In Covert Laid, And Violent Death In Thousand Shapes Displayed; The City To The Soldier's Rage Resigned; Successless Wars, And Poverty Behind; Ships Burnt In Fight, Or Forced On Rocky Shores, And The Rash Hunter Strangled By The Boars; The Newborn Babe By Nurses Overlaid; And The Cook Caught Within The Raging Fire He Made.

In April The Sweet Showers Fall And Pierce The Drought Of March To The Root, And All The Veins Are Bathed In Liquor Of Such Power As Brings About The Engendering Of The Flower.

But Al Be That He Was A Philosophre, Yet Hadde He But Litel Gold In Cofre.