With Emptie Hands Men May No Haukes

And She Was Fair As Is The Rose In May.

Look Up On High, And Thank The God Of All.

But All Thing Which That Shineth As The Gold Ne Is No Gold, As I Have Herd It Told.

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.

Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of Gilt Spurs Maketh No Knight.