Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.

Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.

To live a life half dead, a living death.

Fairy damsels met in forest wide / By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, / Lancelot or Pelleas, or Pellenore.

Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.

Solitude is sometimes best society.

Such bickerings to recount, met often in these our writers, what more worth is it than to chronicle the wars of kites or crows flocking and fighting in the air?