The guilty think all talk is of themselves.
Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.
Felds hath eyen, and wode have eres.
The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.