In the stars is written the death of every man.

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

So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.

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

With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.