Mordre Wol Out, That Se

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.

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

Men Sholde Nat Knowe Of Goddes Pryvetee Ye, Blessed Be Alwey, A Lewed Man That Noght But Oonly His Believe Kan! So Ferde Another Clerk With Astromye, He Walked In The Feelds, For To Prye Upon The Sterres, What Ther Sholde Bifalle, Til He Was In A Marle-pit Yfalle.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.