But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tickleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme. But age, alias! that al wole envenyme, Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith. Lat go, farewel! the devel go therwith! The flour is goon, ther is namoore to telle; The bren, as I best kan, now most I selle.

Time and tide wait for no man.

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

And when a beest is deed, he hath no peyne; But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne.

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

A love grown old is not the love once new.

I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.