. . . If Gold Rust, What

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.

Death Is The End Of Every Worldly Pain.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.

With Empty Hand No Man Can Lure A Hawk.

Time And Tide Wait For No Man.