Men love newfangleness.

And she was fair as is the rose in May.

He who accepts his poverty unhurt I'd say is rich although he lacked a shirt. But truly poor are they who whine and fret and covet what they cannot hope to get.

Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.

Of alle the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun. . . . . Til that myn herte dye. . . . . That wel by reson men hit calle may The 'dayesye' or elles the 'ye of day,' The emperice and flour of floures alle. I pray to god that faire mot she falle, And alle that loven floures, for hir sake!

Take a cat, nourish it well with milk and tender meat, make it a couch of silk.

First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.