Men sholde nat knowe of Goddes pryvetee Ye, blessed be alwey, a lewed man That noght but oonly his believe kan! So ferde another clerk with astromye, He walked in the feelds, for to prye Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle, Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle.

For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.

With empty hand no man can lure a hawk.

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

If gold rusts, what then can iron do?

Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that’s written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.

Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?