I Am Right Sorry For

Certes, They Been Lye To Hounds, For An Hound When He Cometh By The Roses, Or By Other Bushes, Though He May Nat Pisse, Yet Wole He Heve Up His Leg And Make A Countenance To Pisse.

He Is Gentle That Doeth Gentle Deeds.

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.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.