For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tickleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme. But age, alias! that al wole envenyme, Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith. Lat go, farewel! the devel go therwith! The flour is goon, ther is namoore to telle; The bren, as I best kan, now most I selle.
The bisy larke, messager of day.
Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
Yblessed be god that I have wedded fyve! Welcome the sixte, whan that evere he shal.
And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
This flour of wifly patience.
But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
Ek gret effect men write in place lite; Th'entente is al, and nat the lettres space.
But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but on hole for to sterten to.
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