Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?
Felds hath eyen, and wode have eres.
A love grown old is not the love once new.
If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo? If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me
In love there is but little rest.
Patience is a conquering virtue.