Of all the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche that men callen daysies in our toun. - Geoffrey Chaucer

There in the sun; and Chanticleer so free Sang merrier than a mermaid in the sea (For Physiologus says certainly That they do sing, both well and merrily).

A thousand tymes have I herd men telle, That ther is joye in heven, and peyne in helle; And I acorde wel that hit is so; But natheles, yit wot I wel also, That ther nis noon dwelling in this contree, That either hath in heven or helle y-be, Ne may of hit non other weyes witen, But as he hath herd seyd, or founde hit writen; For by assay ther may no man hit preve. But god forbede but men shulde leve Wel more thing then men han seen with yë! Men shal nat wenen every-thing a lyë But-if him-self hit seeth, or elles dooth; For, god wot, thing is never the lasse sooth, Thogh every wight ne may hit nat y-see. Bernard the monk ne saugh nat al, parde!

One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess,
Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.