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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.

Geoffrey Chaucer

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Geoffrey Chaucer
Died: 1400
Died: October 25
Astrologer
Linguist
Lyricist
Philosopher
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer

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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
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The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
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That of all the floures in the mede, Thanne love I most these floures white and rede, Suche as men callen daysyes in her toune.
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In love there is but little rest.
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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
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Mercy surpasses justice.
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Death is the end of every worldly pain.
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One eare it heard, at the other out it went.
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The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
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Men sholde nat knowe of Goddes pryvetee Ye, blessed be alwey, a lewed man That noght but oonly his believe kan! So ferde another clerk with astromye, He walked in the feelds, for to prye Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle, Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Remember in the forms of speech comes change Within a thousand years, and words that then Were well esteemed, seem foolish now and strange And yet they spake them so, time and again, And thrived in love as well as any men And so to win their loves in sundry days, In sundry lands there are as many ways.
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The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly - by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Patience is a conquering virtue.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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All good things must come to an end.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
Geoffrey Chaucer