With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.

Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.

Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.

In the stars is written the death of every man.

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

Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.

Of alle the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun. . . . . Til that myn herte dye. . . . . That wel by reson men hit calle may The 'dayesye' or elles the 'ye of day,' The emperice and flour of floures alle. I pray to god that faire mot she falle, And alle that loven floures, for hir sake!