Oon ere it herde, at tothir out it wente.

For of fortunes sharp adversitee The worst kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.

And for ther is so gret diversite In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge, So prey I God that non myswrite the, Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge; And red …

It is nought good a slepyng hound to wake.

I know that's a secret, for it's whispered every where.

There are no secrets better kept than the secrets everybody guesses.

Kashka from Baghdad Lives in sin, they say, With another man, But no one knows who.