Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of

Nowhere So Busy A Man As He There Was And Yet He Seemed Busier Than He Was.

If No Love Is, O God, What Fele I So? And If Love Is, What Thing And Which Is He? If Love Be Good, From Whennes Cometh My Woo? If It Be Wikke, A Wonder Thynketh Me

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.

Murder Will Out, This My Conclusion.