Through thicke and thin, both over banke and bush

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

So love is Lord of all the world by right.

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

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.

Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde famous poete Chaucer.