Time Lost, As Men May

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.

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.

If Were Not Foolish Young, Were Foolish Old.

That Field Hath Eyen, And The Wood Hath Ears.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.