Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day

It Is Nought Good A Sleping Hound To Wake.

At The Ches With Me She (fortune) Gan To Pleye; With Her False Draughts (pieces) Dyvers/she Staal On Me, And Took Away My Fers. And When I Sawgh My Fers Awaye, Allas! I Kouthe No Lenger Playe.

The Gretteste Clerkes Been Noght Wisest Men.

For Of Fortunes Sharp Adversitee The Worst Kynde Of Infortune Is This, A Man To Han Ben In Prosperitee, And It Remembren, Whan It Passed Is.

For I Have Seyn Of A Ful Misty Morwe Folowen Ful Ofte A Myrie Someris Day.