We little know the things for which we pray.

The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne; Al this mene I be love... For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this new corn fro yeer to yere; And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

It is nought good a sleping hound to wake.

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

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

To keep demands as much skill as to win.

Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that’s written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.