There's No Workman, Whatsoever He Be, That

But, Lord Crist! Whan That It Remembreth Me Upon My Yowthe, And On My Jolitee, It Tickleth Me Aboute Myn Herte Roote. Unto This Day It Dooth Myn Herte Boote That I Have Had My World As In My Tyme. But Age, Alias! That Al Wole Envenyme, Hath Me Biraft My Beautee And My Pith. Lat Go, Farewel! The Devel Go Therwith! The Flour Is Goon, Ther Is Namoore To Telle; The Bren, As I Best Kan, Now Most I Selle.

And She Was Fair As Is The Rose In May.

Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It Nas Old.

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

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