In Love There Is But Little Rest.

One Flesh They Are; And One Flesh, So I'd Guess, Has But One Heart, Come Grief Or Happiness.

The Fields Have Eyes, And The Woods Have Ears.

And When A Beest Is Deed, He Hath No Peyne; But Man After His Deeth Moot Wepe And Pleyne.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.

Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It Nas Old.