For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.

For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.

If gold rusts, what then can iron do?

Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space_x000D_ _x000D_ Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience,_x000D_ _x000D_ That neither by hir wordes ne hir face_x000D_ _x000D_ Biforn the folk, ne eek in her absence,_x000D_ _x000D_ Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence.

Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.

For oute of olde feldys, as men sey,_x000D_ _x000D_ Comyth al this newe corn from yer to yere;_x000D_ _x000D_ And out of olde bokis, in good fey,_x000D_ _x000D_ Comyth al this newe science that men lere.