Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Longe To Lerne. Th' Assay So Hard, So Sharp The Conquerynge, The Dredful Joye, Alwey That Slit So Yerne; Al This Mene I Be Love... For Out Of Olde Feldes, As Men Seith, Cometh Al This New Corn Fro Yeer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokes, In Good Feith, Cometh Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

But Christ's Lore And His Apostles Twelve, He Taught And First He Followed It Himself.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.