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Save certainly, when that the month of May Is comen, and that I heare the foules sing, And that the floures ginnen for to spring, Farwell my booke, and my devotion! Poor people love flowers; rich people admire them." "But," said Mercy, "how can one love a thing that has no life?"
Though exceedingly busy in public affairs and as receiver of customs, his heart was still with his books, from which only nature could win him: And as for me, though that my wit be lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom, on the holyday; Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe Farwel my book and my devocioun!
Save certainly, when that the month of May Is comen, and that I heare the foules sing, And that the floures ginnen for to spring, Farwell my booke, and my devotion! Poor people love flowers; rich people admire them." "But," said Mercy, "how can one love a thing that has no life?"
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