This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

'my Lige Lady, Generally,' Quod He, 'wommen Desyren To Have Sovereyntee As Well Over Hir Housbond As Hir Love.'

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

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

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.

But Al Be That He Was A Philosophre, Yet Hadde He But Litel Gold In Cofre.