Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

One Eare It Heard, At The Other Out It Went.

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.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

The Bisy Larke, Messager Of Day.