Thus in this heaven he took his delight And smothered her with kisses upon kisses Till gradually he came to know where bliss is. - Geoffrey Chaucer

Go litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye,
Ther God thi makere yet, er that he dye,
So sende myght to make in som comedye!
But litel book, no makyng thow n'envie,
But subgit be to alle poesye;
And kis the steppes where as thow seest pace
Virgile, Ovide, Omer, Lucan, and Stace.

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, Out of this toune help me through your might.

And shame it is, if that a priest take keep, To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep: