My house is small, but you are learned men And by your arguments can make a place Twenty foot broad as infinite as space.

And when a beest is deed, he hath no peyne; But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne.

Look up on high, and thank the God of all.

The guilty think all talk is of themselves.

What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.

. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .

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