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!

We little know the things for which we pray.

People can die of mere imagination.

Take a cat, nourish it well with milk and tender meat, make it a couch of silk.

'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.

Time and tide wait for no man.