The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

If Gold Ruste, What Shall Iren Do?

Nature, The Vicar Of The Almighty Lord.

Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote The Droghte Of March Hath Perced To The Roote.

In Love There Is But Little Rest.

Of Harmes Two The Lesse Is For To Cheese.