One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.

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

Fo lo, the gentil kind of the lioun! For when a flye offendeth him or byteth, He with his tayl awey the flye smyteth Al esily, for, of his genterye, Him deyneth net to wreke him on a flye, As cloth a curre or elles another beste.

The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.

Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.

And when a beest is deed, he hath no peyne; But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne.

In love there is but little rest.