I Am Not The Rose, But I

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.

He Who Accepts His Poverty Unhurt I'd Say Is Rich Although He Lacked A Shirt. But Truly Poor Are They Who Whine And Fret And Covet What They Cannot Hope To Get.

For Oute Of Olde Feldys, As Men Sey, Comyth Al This Newe Corn From Yer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokis, In Good Fey, Comyth Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

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.