Woe To The Cook Whose

Truth Is The Highest Thing That Man May Keep.

That He Is Gentil That Doth Gentil Dedis.

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

That Of All The Floures In The Mede, Thanne Love I Most These Floures White And Rede, Suche As Men Callen Daysyes In Her Toune.

Oon Ere It Herde, At Tother Out It Went.