Trouthe Is The Hyest Thyng

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

Love Will Not Be Constrain'd By Mastery. When Mast'ry Comes, The God Of Love Anon Beateth His Wings, And, Farewell, He Is Gone. Love Is A Thing As Any Spirit Free.

For I Have Seyn Of A Ful Misty Morwe Folowen Ful Ofte A Myrie Someris Day.

Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote The Droghte Of March Hath Perced To The Roote.

My House Is Small, But You Are Learned Men And By Your Arguments Can Make A Place Twenty Foot Broad As Infinite As Space.