Top 168 Quotes & Sayings by Geoffrey Chaucer - Page 3

Purity in body and heart May please some--as for me, I make no boast. For, as you know, no master of a household Has all of his utensils made of gold; Some are wood, and yet they are of use.

And for to see, and eek for to be seie.

Right as an aspen lefe she gan to quake.

Fo lo, the gentil kind of the lioun! For when a flye offendeth him or byteth, He with his tayl awey the flye smyteth Al esily, for, of his genterye, Him deyneth net to wreke him on a flye, As cloth a curre or elles another beste.

To maken vertue of necessite.

First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.

Hyt is not al golde that glareth.

The proverbe saith that many a smale maketh a grate.

And when a beest is deed, he hath no peyne; But man after his deeth moot wepe and pleyne.

Oon ere it herde, at tother out it went.

The latter end of joy is woe.

To keep demands as much skill as to win.

Men sholde nat knowe of Goddes pryvetee Ye, blessed be alwey, a lewed man That noght but oonly his believe kan! So ferde another clerk with astromye, He walked in the feelds, for to prye Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle, Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle.

Of harmes two the lesse is for to cheese.

For oute of olde feldys, as men sey, Comyth al this newe corn from yer to yere; And out of olde bokis, in good fey, Comyth al this newe science that men lere.

The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.

At the ches with me she (Fortune) gan to pleye; With her false draughts (pieces) dyvers/She staal on me, and took away my fers. And when I sawgh my fers awaye, Allas! I kouthe no lenger playe.

If no love is, O God, what fele I so? And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo? If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me

The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne; Al this mene I be love... For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this new corn fro yeer to yere; And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?

And brought of mighty ale a large quart.

Yblessed be god that I have wedded fyve! Welcome the sixte, whan that evere he shal.

Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.

Eke wonder last but nine deies never in toun.

Alas, alas, that ever love was sin! I ever followed natural inclination Under the power of my constellation And was unable to deny, in truth, My chamber of Venus to a likely youth.

So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth me Upon my yowthe, and on my jolitee, It tickleth me aboute myn herte roote. Unto this day it dooth myn herte boote That I have had my world as in my tyme. But age, alias! that al wole envenyme, Hath me biraft my beautee and my pith. Lat go, farewel! the devel go therwith! The flour is goon, ther is namoore to telle; The bren, as I best kan, now most I selle.

For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.

For hym was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.

If gold ruste, what shall iren do?

I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke, That hath but on hole for to sterten to.

And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach

This flour of wifly patience.

Of alle the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun. . . . . Til that myn herte dye. . . . . That wel by reson men hit calle may The 'dayesye' or elles the 'ye of day,' The emperice and flour of floures alle. I pray to god that faire mot she falle, And alle that loven floures, for hir sake!

I am right sorry for your heavinesse.

Certes, they been lye to hounds, for an hound when he cometh by the roses, or by other bushes, though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a countenance to pisse.

Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.

Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.

Loke who that is most vertuous alway, Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay To do the gentil dedes that he can, And take him for the gretest gentilman.

Ek gret effect men write in place lite; Th'entente is al, and nat the lettres space.

Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.

The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.

I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.

The bisy larke, messager of day.

Nature, the vicar of the Almighty Lord.

But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.

Or as an ook comth of a litel spir, So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente, Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.

But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.