And She Was Fair As

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.

. . . If Gold Rust, What Then Will Iron Do?/ For If A Priest Be Foul In Whom We Trust/ No Wonder That A Common Man Should Rust. . . .

Loke Who That Is Most Vertuous Alway, Prive And Apert, And Most Entendeth Ay To Do The Gentil Dedes That He Can, And Take Him For The Gretest Gentilman.