And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte, On bakes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon, That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom, on the holyday; Save, certeynly, when that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe, Farwel my book and my devocion.

The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.

Time and tide wait for no man.

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.

Murder will out, this my conclusion.

Look up on high, and thank the God of all.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.