The Smylere With The Knyf Under The

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

Til That The Brighte Sonne Loste His Hewe; For Th'orisonte Hath Reft The Sonne His Lyght; This Is As Muche To Seye As It Was Nyght!

. . . If Gold Rust, What Then Will Iron Do?/ For If A Priest Be Foul In Whom We Trust/ No Wonder That A Common Man Should Rust. . . .

If A Man Really Loves A Woman, Of Course He Wouldn't Marry Her For The World If He Were Not Quite Sure That He Was The Best Person She Could Possibly Marry.

Who Looks At Me, Beholdeth Sorrows All, All Pain, All Torture, Woe And All Distress; I Have No Need On Other Harms To Call, As Anguish, Languor, Cruel Bitterness, Discomfort, Dread, And Madness More And Less; Methinks From Heaven Above The Tears Must Rain In Pity For My Harsh And Cruel Pain.