Quotes from Geoffrey Chaucer

If love be good, from whence cometh my woe?

A love grown old is not the love once new.

First he wrought, and afterward he taught.

Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that's written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.

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.

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

'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'

Women naturally desire the same six things as I; they want their husbands to be brave, wise, rich, generous with money, obedient to the wife, and lively in bed.

One cannot scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure patiently, or else, as I live and breathe, you shall learn it whether you want or not.

People can die of mere imagination.

Curteis he was, lowely, and servysable,And carf biforn his fader at the table.

For love is blynd.

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne softe,That hast this wintres wedres overshake.

For he that naught n' assaieth, naught n' acheveth.

This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,That first he wroghte, and afterward he taughte.

Filth and old age, I'm sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.

This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo,And we been pilgrymes, passing to and fro.Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.

As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem.

For pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,In which that love up groweth with youre age,Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.

For out of olde feldes, as men seyth,Cometh al this newe corn fro yer to yere;And out of olde bokes, in good feyth,Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

As leene was his hors as is a rake.

But, Lord Crist! whan that it remembreth meUpon my yowthe, and on my jolitee,It tikleth me aboute myn herte roote.Unto this day it dooth myn herte booteThat I have had my world as in my tyme.

For May wol have no slogardie anyght.The sesoun priketh every gentil herte,And maketh hym out of his slep to sterte.