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.

To keep demands as much skill as to win.

There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.

Many a true word is spoken in jest

Hyt is not al golde that glareth.

Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.

Filth and old age, I'm sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.