Thy myrrour may be the devyllys ars

Stedfast of thought, Wele made, wele wrought; Far may be sought Erst that ye can fynde So courteise, so kynde As mirry Margarete,

O noble Chaucer, whos pullisshyd eloquence Oure Englysshe rude so fresshely hath set out, That bounde ar we with all deu reverence, With all our strength that we can brynge about, To owe to yow our servyce, and more if we mowte! But what …

Gentle Paule, laie doune thy sweard, For Peter of Westminster hath shaven thy beard.

There is nothynge that more dyspleaseth God, Than from theyr children to spare the rod.

What dreamest thou, drunkard, drowsy pate? Thy lust and liking is from thee gone; Thou blinkard blowboll, thou wakest too late.

When I remember again How my Philip was slain, Never half the pain Was between you twain, Pyramus and Thisbe, As then befell to me.