I Am Not The Rose, But I

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!

And Gladly Would He Learn, And Gladly Teach

How Potent Is The Fancy! People Are So Impressionable, They Can Die Of Imagination.

I Gave My Whole Heart Up, For Him To Hold.

So Was Hir Jolly Whistel Wel Y-wette.