Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote

Certain, When I Was Born, So Long Ago, Death Drew The Tap Of Life And Let It Flow; And Ever Since The Tap Has Done Its Task, And Now There's Little But An Empty Cask.

Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire Yreken.

Certes, They Been Lye To Hounds, For An Hound When He Cometh By The Roses, Or By Other Bushes, Though He May Nat Pisse, Yet Wole He Heve Up His Leg And Make A Countenance To Pisse.

By Nature, Men Love Newfangledness.

For In Their Hearts Doth Nature Stir Them So Then People Long On Pilgrimage To Go And Palmers To Be Seeking Foreign Strands To Distant Shrines Renowned In Sundry Lands.