For love is mor than gold or gret richesse; Gold faileth ofte; love wol abyde. - John Lydgate

There is no rose
Spryngyng in gardeyns, but ther be sum thorn.

A prowde hert in a beggers brest,
A fowle visage with gay temples of atyre,
Horrible othes with an holy prist,
A justice of juges to selle and lete to hyre,
A knave to comande and have an empire,
To yeve a jugement of that never was wrought,
To preche of pees and sette eche man on fyre,
It may wele ryme but it accordith nought.

For he owre englishe gilte with his sawes,
Rude and boistous firste be olde dawes,
That was ful fer from al perfeccioun
And but of litel reputacioun
Til that he cam, and thorugh his poetrie,
Gan oure tonge firste to magnifie
And adourne it with his eloquence:
To whom honour, laude and reuerence.