Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease

So love is Lord of all the world by right.

I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.

Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

I hate the day, because it lendeth light To see all things, but not my love to see.

I trow that countenance cannot lie, Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.

Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde famous poete Chaucer.