Many small make a great.

Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.

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!

In love there is but little rest.

So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette.

Time and tide wait for no man.

Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.