Geoffrey Chaucer Quotes
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He helde about him alway, out of drede, A world of folke.
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And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
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Love is a thyng as any spirit free. Wommen, of kynde, desiren libertee, And nat to been constreyned as a thral; And so doon men, if I sooth seyen shal.
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That well by reason men it call may The daisie, or els the eye of the day, The emprise, and floure of floures all.
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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.
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Time and tide wait for no man.
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He coude songes make, and wel endite.
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The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.
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That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis.
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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.
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But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taught; but first he folwed it himselve.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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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.
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I am right sorry for your heavinesse.
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A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also.
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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
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Of all the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures white and rede, Soch that men callen daisies in our toun.
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Harde is his herte that loveth noughtIn Mey, ...
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Allas! allas! that evere love was synne!
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For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde, Ay fleeth the tyme; it nyl no man abyde.