He That Loveth God Will

In The Stars Is Written The Death Of Every Man.

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.

Or As An Ook Comth Of A Litel Spir, So Thorugh This Lettre, Which That She Hym Sente, Encressen Gan Desir, Of Which He Brente.

Take A Cat, Nourish It Well With Milk And Tender Meat, Make It A Couch Of Silk.

That Field Hath Eyen, And The Wood Hath Ears.