Pitee Renneth Soone In Gentil Herte.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

The Bisy Larke, Messager Of Day.

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

And As For Me, Thogh That I Can But Lyte, On Bakes For To Rede I Me Delyte, And To Hem Yeve I Feyth And Ful Credence, And In Myn Herte Have Hem In Reverence So Hertely, That Ther Is Game Noon, That Fro My Bokes Maketh Me To Goon, But Hit Be Seldom, On The Holyday; Save, Certeynly, When That The Month Of May Is Comen, And That I Here The Foules Singe, And That The Floures Ginnen For To Springe, Farwel My Book And My Devocion.

Take A Cat, Nourish It Well With Milk And Tender Meat, Make It A Couch Of Silk.