Time Lost, As Men May

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Long To Lerne.

But Manly Set The World On Sixe And Sevene; And, If Thou Deye A Martir, Go To Hevene.

Certes, They Been Lye To Hounds, For An Hound When He Cometh By The Roses, Or By Other Bushes, Though He May Nat Pisse, Yet Wole He Heve Up His Leg And Make A Countenance To Pisse.

Murder Will Out, This My Conclusion.