The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

Til That The Brighte Sonne Loste His Hewe; For Th'orisonte Hath Reft The Sonne His Lyght; This Is As Muche To Seye As It Was Nyght!

Look Up On High, And Thank The God Of All.

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.

The Proverbe Saith That Many A Smale Maketh A Grate.