Off oure language he was the lodesterre

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

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

All is not golde that outward shewith bright.

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 …

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