Pitee Renneth Soone In Gentil Herte.

With Empty Hand No Man Can Lure A Hawk.

Fo Lo, The Gentil Kind Of The Lioun! For When A Flye Offendeth Him Or Byteth, He With His Tayl Awey The Flye Smyteth Al Esily, For, Of His Genterye, Him Deyneth Net To Wreke Him On A Flye, As Cloth A Curre Or Elles Another Beste.

If No Love Is, O God, What Fele I So? And If Love Is, What Thing And Which Is He? If Love Be Good, From Whennes Cometh My Woo? If It Be Wikke, A Wonder Thynketh Me

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.