Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's

The Life So Brief, The Art So Long In The Learning, The Attempt So Hard, The Conquest So Sharp, The Fearful Joy That Ever Slips Away So Quickly - By All This I Mean Love, Which So Sorely Astounds My Feeling With Its Wondrous Operation, That When I Think Upon It I Scarce Know Whether I Wake Or Sleep.

Time And Tide Wait For No Man.

Thus With Hir Fader For A Certeyn Space Dwelleth This Flour Of Wyfly Pacience, That Neither By Hir Wordes Ne Hir Face Biforn The Folk, Ne Eek In Her Absence, Ne Shewed She That Hir Was Doon Offence.

The Bisy Larke, Messager Of Day.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.