Trewe as stiel.

That Paradis stood formed in her yën.

For he that naught n’ assaieth, naught n’ acheveth.

For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.

But manly sette the world on six and sevene; 4 And if thow deye a martyr, go to hevene!

For of fortunes sharpe adversitee The worste kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.

Oon ere it herde, at tothir out it wente. 3

For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe Folowen ful often a myrie someris day.

Right as an aspes leef she gan to quake.

Til crowes feet be growen under youre yë.