Time And Tide Wait For No Man.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.

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!

In Love There Is But Little Rest.

And Gladly Wolde He Lerne, And Gladly Teche.

The Gretteste Clerkes Been Noght Wisest Men.