For which he wex a litel red for shame, Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen, That to beholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen, And let so softe it in her herte sinke That to herself she seyde, 'Who yaf me drinke?'

Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge Withinne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge Us thinketh hem; and y…

Or as an ook comth of a litel spir, So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente, Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.

For I am shave as neigh as any frere. But yit I praye unto youre curteisye: Beeth hevy again, or elles moot I die.

On their own merits modest men are dumb.

The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals; Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.

Blushing is the colour of virtue.