For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

Take A Cat, Nourish It Well With Milk And Tender Meat, Make It A Couch Of Silk.

Who Then May Trust The Dice, At Fortune's Throw?

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

How Potent Is The Fancy! People Are So Impressionable, They Can Die Of Imagination.

And As For Me, Thogh That I Can But Lyte, On Bakes For To Rede I Me Delyte, And To Hem Yeve I Feyth And Ful Credence, And In Myn Herte Have Hem In Reverence So Hertely, That Ther Is Game Noon, That Fro My Bokes Maketh Me To Goon, But Hit Be Seldom, On The Holyday; Save, Certeynly, When That The Month Of May Is Comen, And That I Here The Foules Singe, And That The Floures Ginnen For To Springe, Farwel My Book And My Devocion.