Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire

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

Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It Nas Old.

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.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.