There's Never A New Fashion But It's

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.

With Empty Hand No Man Can Lure A Hawk.

Who Looks At Me, Beholdeth Sorrows All, All Pain, All Torture, Woe And All Distress; I Have No Need On Other Harms To Call, As Anguish, Languor, Cruel Bitterness, Discomfort, Dread, And Madness More And Less; Methinks From Heaven Above The Tears Must Rain In Pity For My Harsh And Cruel Pain.

But All Thing Which That Shineth As The Gold Ne Is No Gold, As I Have Herd It Told.

For In Their Hearts Doth Nature Stir Them So Then People Long On Pilgrimage To Go And Palmers To Be Seeking Foreign Strands To Distant Shrines Renowned In Sundry Lands.