A fair feeld ful of folk fond I ther bitwene – Of alle manere of men, the meene and the riche, Werchynge and wandrynge as the world asketh. - William Langland

In a somer seson, whan softe was the sonne, I shoop me into shroudes as I a sheep were,
In habite as an heremite unholy of werkes, Wente wide in this world wondres to here. Ac on a May morwenynge on Malverne hilles Me bifel a ferly, of Fairye me thoghte.

For hevene myghte nat holden it, so was it hevy of hymself, Til it hadde of the erthe eten his fille. And whan it hadde of this fold flessh and blood taken, Was nevere leef upon lynde lighter therafter, And portatif and persaunt as the point of a nedle, That myghte noon armure it lette ne none heighe walles. Forthi is love ledere of the Lordes folk of hevene, And a meene, as the mair is, [inmiddes] the kyng and the commune.

I kan noght parfitly my Paternoster as the preest it syngeth, But I kan rymes of Robyn Hood and Randolf Erl of Chestre.