If Gold Rusts, What Then

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Long To Lerne.

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

Right As An Aspen Lefe She Gan To Quake.

People Can Die Of Mere Imagination.

Ther Nis No Werkman, Whatsoevere He Be, That May Bothe Werke Wel And Hastily.