Quotes from Geoffrey Chaucer

And she was fair as is the rose in May.

For in their hearts doth Nature stir them so Then people long on pilgrimage to go And palmers to be seeking foreign strands To distant shrines renowned in sundry lands.

Certain, when I was born, so long ago, Death drew the tap of life and let it flow; And ever since the tap has done its task, And now there's little but an empty cask.

The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.

The guilty think all talk is of themselves.

Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.

But Christ's lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.

High on a stag the Goddess held her seat, And there were little hounds about her feet; Below her feet there was a sickle moon, Waxing it seemed, but would be waning soon. Her statue bore a mantle of bright green, Her hand a bow with arrows cased and keen; Her eyes were lowered, gazing as she rode Down to where Pluto has his dark abode.

For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder is a common man should rust -The Prologue of Chaucers Canterbury Tales-

Thus in this heaven he took his delight And smothered her with kisses upon kisses Till gradually he came to know where bliss is.

earn what you can since everything's for sale

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 man who has no wife is no cuckold.

For he would rather have, by his bedside, twenty books, bound in black or red, of Aristotle and his philosophy, than rich robes or costly fiddles or gay harps.

we know little of the things for which we pray

Who shall give a lover any law?' Love is a greater law, by my troth, than any law written by mortal man.

By God, quod he, for pleynly, at a word, Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toord!

Her statue, glorious in majesty, Stood naked, floating on a vasty sea, And from the navel down there were a mass Of green and glittering waves as bright as glass. In her right hand a cithern carried she And on her head, most beautiful to see, A garland of fresh roses, while above There circles round her many a flickering dove.

He who repeats a tale after a man, Is bound to say, as nearly as he can, Each single word, if he remembers it, However rudely spoken or unfit, Or else the tale he tells will be untrue, The things invented and the phrases new.

But for to telle yow al hir beautee, It lyth nat in my tonge, n'yn my konnyng; I dar nat undertake so heigh a thyng. Myn Englissh eek is insufficient. It moste been a rethor excellent That koude his colours longynge for that art, If he sholde hire discryven every part. I am noon swich, I moot speke as I kan.

Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye. Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye

Then the Miller fell off his horse.

I'll die for stifled love, by all that's true.

If you are poor your very brother hates you And all your friends avoid you, sad to say.