So longe mote ye lyve, and alle proude, Til crowes feet be growen under youre y'.
The bird, the beste, the fisch eke in the see, They lyve in fredome, euerich in his kynd, And I, a man, and lakkith libertee!
What maketh this, but Juppiter the kyng, That is prince and cause of alle thyng Convertynge al unto his propre welle From which it is deryved, sooth to telle, And heer-agayns no creature on lyve Of no degree availleth for to strive. Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, To maken vertu of necessity, And take it weel, that we may nat eschue; And namely, that to us alle is due.Geoffrey Chaucer
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