For of the soul the body form doth take,For soul is form, and doth the Body make.

For of the soul the body form doth take,
For soul is form, and doth the Body make.

Woe never wants, where every cause is caught, and rash Occasion makes unquiet life.

Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.

The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.

Don Chaucer. well of English undefyled On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.