Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It

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.

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.

It Is Nought Good A Sleping Hound To Wake.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

He Is Gentle That Doeth Gentle Deeds.