For love is mor than gold or gret richesse

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

A wikked tonge wol alway deme amis.

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.

All is not golde that outward shewith bright.

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