Quotes from Geoffrey Chaucer

Now up, now doun, as boket in a welle.

By God! in erthe I was his purgatorie,For which I hope his Soule be in glorie.

For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde,Ay fleeth the tyme, it nyl no man abyde.

What is this world? what asketh men to have?Now with his love, now in his colde graveAllone, withouten any compaignye.

But Cristes loore and his apostles twelveHe taughte, but first he folwed it hymselve.

No wedded man so hardy be t'assailleHis wyves pacience, in trust to fyndeGrisildis, for in certein he shal faille!

Ye been oure lord, dooth with youre owene thyngRight as yow list.

His palfrey was as broun as is a berye.

But manly sette the world on six and sevene;And if thow deye a martyr, go to hevene!

This may wel be rym dogerel.

"Tehee!" quod she, and clapte the wyndow to.

Somwhat he lipsed, for his wantownesse,To make his Englissh sweete upon his tonge.

In his owene grece I made hym frye.

This flour of wyfly pacience.

Greet prees at market maketh deere ware,And to greet cheep is holde at litel prys.

The bisy larke, messager of day.

Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille.

The gretteste clerkes been noght the wisest men.

Lord, this is an huge rayn!This were a weder for to slepen inne!

Myn be the travaille, and thyn be the glorie!

Up roos the sonne, and up roose Emelye.

Yet in our asshen olde is fyr yreke.

And broghte of myghty ale a large quart.

Whan that the month of MayIs comen, and that I here the foules synge,And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge,Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!