This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

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

Full Wise Is He That Can Himselven Knowe.

The Gretteste Clerkes Been Noght Wisest Men.

With Emptie Hands Men May No Haukes Lure.

But, Lord Crist! Whan That It Remembreth Me Upon My Yowthe, And On My Jolitee, It Tickleth Me Aboute Myn Herte Roote. Unto This Day It Dooth Myn Herte Boote That I Have Had My World As In My Tyme. But Age, Alias! That Al Wole Envenyme, Hath Me Biraft My Beautee And My Pith. Lat Go, Farewel! The Devel Go Therwith! The Flour Is Goon, Ther Is Namoore To Telle; The Bren, As I Best Kan, Now Most I Selle.