With Emptie Hands Men May No Haukes

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

Min Be The Travaille, And Thin Be The Glorie.

If Gold Ruste, What Shall Iren Do?

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!

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