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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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People can die of mere imagination.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Love is blind.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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He helde about him alway, out of drede, A world of folke.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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For him was lever han at his beddes hed A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, Of Aristotle, and his philosophie, Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie. But all be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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His studie was but litel on the Bible.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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He coude songes make, and wel endite.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!
Geoffrey Chaucer
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That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Women desire six things: They want their husbands to be brave, wise, rich, generous, obedient to wife, and lively in bed.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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For of fortunes sharp adversitee The worst kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Harde is his herte that loveth noughtIn Mey, ...
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Allas! allas! that evere love was synne!
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Soun is noght but air ybroken, And every speche that is spoken, Loud or privee, foul or fair, In his substaunce is but air; For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke, Right so soun is air ybroke.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taught; but first he folwed it himselve.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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I am right sorry for your heavinesse.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
