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Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
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Nowhere so busy a man as he than he, and yet he seemed busier than he was.
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First he wrought, and afterward he taught.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
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O little booke, thou art so unconning, How darst thou put thy-self in prees for drede?
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They demen gladly to the badder end.
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Of harmes two the lesse is for to cheese.
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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
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And therfore, at the kynges court, my brother, Ech man for hymself, ther is noon other.
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But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
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Go, little booke! go, my little tragedie!
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For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
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We know little of the things for which we pray.
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He was as fresh as is the month of May.
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So was hire joly whistle wel ywette.
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The firste vertue, sone, if thou wilt lere, Is to restreine and kepen wel thy tonge.
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He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.
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Love is blind.
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For iii may keep a counsel if twain be away.
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Murder will out, this my conclusion.