No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd
No arborett with painted blossomes drest
And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd
To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
Book iv. Canto ii. St.
Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled.
Lines on his Promised Pension.
I was promised on a time
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.
Hymn in Honor of Beauty. Line 132.
For of the soul the body form doth take,
For soul is form, and doth the Body make.