That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis.

Of harmes two the lesse is for to cheese.

It is nought good a sleping hound to wake.

Look up on high, and thank the God of all.

A love grown old is not the love once new.

First he wrought, and afterward he taught.

I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.

The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.

The guilty think all talk is of themselves.

If love be good, from whence cometh my woe?

First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach

If were not foolish young, were foolish old.

We little know the things for which we pray.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.

The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.

One eare it heard, at the other out it went.

Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.

Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.

Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.

Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.

That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.

Eke wonder last but nine deies never in toun.

The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.

Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

In the stars is written the death of every man.

We know little of the things for which we pray.

Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?

I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.

Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.

The proverbe saith that many a smale maketh a grate.

The cat would eat fish but would not get her feet wet.

The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.

Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.

He loved chivalrye Trouthe and honour, freedom and curteisye.

Habit maketh no monk, ne wearing of gilt spurs maketh no knight.

Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.

There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.

Nowhere so busy a man as he than he, and yet he seemed busier than he was.

For I have seyn of a ful misty morwe Folowen ful ofte a myrie someris day.

But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.

The devil can only destroy those who are already on their way to damnation.

Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.

Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.

Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.

A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.

I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but on hole for to sterten to.

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