For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
Love will not be constrain'd by mastery. When mast'ry comes, the god of love anon Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone. Love is a thing as any spirit free.
Felds hath eyen, and wode have eres.
Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
Purity in body and heart May please some--as for me, I make no boast. For, as you know, no master of a household Has all of his utensils made of gold; Some are wood, and yet they are of use.