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

For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.

How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.

Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.

There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.

With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.

For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.