For hym was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.
One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.
Take a cat, nourish it well with milk and tender meat, make it a couch of silk.
All good things must come to an end.
Murder will out, this my conclusion.
At the ches with me she (Fortune) gan to pleye; With her false draughts (pieces) dyvers/She staal on me, and took away my fers. And when I sawgh my fers awaye, Allas! I kouthe no lenger playe.