And Gladly Would He Learn, And Gladly

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It Nas Old.

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.

Truth Is The Highest Thing That Man May Keep.