Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

In Love There Is But Little Rest.

Purity In Body And Heart May Please Some--as For Me, I Make No Boast. For, As You Know, No Master Of A Household Has All Of His Utensils Made Of Gold; Some Are Wood, And Yet They Are Of Use.

By Nature, Men Love Newfangledness.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

. . . 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. . . .