John Lydgate

The wheel of Fortune tourneth as a ball; Sodeyn clymbyng axeth a sodeyn fall.

He as a kyng is crowned in Fairie, With sceptre and suerd, & with his regalie Shal resorte as lord and souereyne, Out of Fairye & regne in Breteyne, And repaire ageyn the Rounde Table.

For princis ofte, of furious hastynesse, Wil cachche a quarrel, causeless in sentence, Ageyn folk absent, thouh ther be non offence.

There is no rose Spryngyng in gardeyns, but ther be sum thorn.

Off oure language he was the lodesterre.

For a story which is nat pleynli told, But constreynyd undir woordes fewe For lak off trouthe, wher thei be newe or olde, Men bi report kan nat the mater shewe.

Trouthe wil out maugre of fals enuye, Rihtwysnesse may nat ben hid certeyn, As for a tyme it may been ovirleyn.

Harde to likke hony out of a marbil stoon, For ther is nouthir licour nor moisture.

Odyous of olde been comparisonis.

For he owre englishe gilte with his sawes, Rude and boistous firste be olde dawes, That was ful fer from al perfeccioun And but of litel reputacioun Til that he cam, and thorugh his poetrie, Gan oure tonge firste to magnifie

For love is mor than gold or gret richesse; Gold faileth ofte; love wol abyde.

Woord is but wynd; leff woord and tak the dede.

A prowde hert in a beggers brest, A fowle visage with gay temples of atyre, Horrible othes with an holy prist, A justice of juges to selle and lete to hyre, A knave to comande and have an empire, To yeve a jugement of that never was …

Who lesethe his fredam, in faith! he loseth all.

A wikked tonge wol alway deme amis.

All is not golde that outward shewith bright.