Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has

The Handsome Gifts That Fate And Nature Lend Us Most Often Are The Very Ones That End Us.

For Hym Was Levere Have At His Beddes Heed Twenty Bookes, Clad In Blak Or Reed, Of Aristotle And His Philosophie, Than Robes Riche, Or Fithele, Or Gay Sautrie.

Nowhere So Busy A Man As He There Was And Yet He Seemed Busier Than He Was.

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

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