The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

Of Alle The Floures In The Mede, Than Love I Most These Floures Whyte And Rede, Swiche As Men Callen Daysies In Our Toun. . . . . Til That Myn Herte Dye. . . . . That Wel By Reson Men Hit Calle May The 'dayesye' Or Elles The 'ye Of Day,' The Emperice And Flour Of Floures Alle. I Pray To God That Faire Mot She Falle, And Alle That Loven Floures, For Hir Sake!

The Devil Can Only Destroy Those Who Are Already On Their Way To Damnation.

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.

By God, If Women Had Written Stories, As Clerks Had Within Here Oratories, They Would Have Written Of Men More Wickedness Than All The Mark Of Adam May Redress.

Yblessed Be God That I Have Wedded Fyve! Welcome The Sixte, Whan That Evere He Shal.