For many a pasty have you robbed of blood, And many a Jack of Dover have you sold That has been heated twice and twice grown cold. From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse, For of your parsley they yet fare the worse, Which they have eaten with your stubble goose; For in your shop full many a fly is loose.

For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.

Patience is a conquering virtue.

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

Men love newfangleness.

Filth and old age, I'm sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.

Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.