With empty hand no man can lure a hawk.

But manly set the world on sixe and sevene; And, if thou deye a martir, go to hevene.

A love grown old is not the love once new.

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

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!

For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.