Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.

Certes, they been lye to hounds, for an hound when he cometh by the roses, or by other bushes, though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a countenance to pisse.

So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette.

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach

. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .

Murder will out, this my conclusion.

There's never a new fashion but it's old.