Time And Tide Wait For No Man.

The Life So Brief, The Art So Long In The Learning, The Attempt So Hard, The Conquest So Sharp, The Fearful Joy That Ever Slips Away So Quickly - By All This I Mean Love, Which So Sorely Astounds My Feeling With Its Wondrous Operation, That When I Think Upon It I Scarce Know Whether I Wake Or Sleep.

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.

And When A Beest Is Deed, He Hath No Peyne; But Man After His Deeth Moot Wepe And Pleyne.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

For In Their Hearts Doth Nature Stir Them So Then People Long On Pilgrimage To Go And Palmers To Be Seeking Foreign Strands To Distant Shrines Renowned In Sundry Lands.