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. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .

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
Common
Rust
Men
Priest
Foul
Priests
Iron
Gold
Trust
Wonder

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The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
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To keep demands as much skill as to win.
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One cannot be avenged for every wrong according to the occasion, everyone who knows how, must use temperance.
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
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What's said is said and goes upon its way Like it or not, repent it as you may.
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The cat would eat fish but would not get her feet wet.
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Patience is a conquering virtue. The learned say that, if it not desert you, It vanquishes what force can never reach Why answer back at every angry speech? No, learn forbearance or, I'll tell you what, You will be taught it, whether you will or not.
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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.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
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Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience, That neither by hir wordes ne hir face Biforn the folk, ne eek in her absence, Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence.
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For out of old fields, as men saith, Cometh all this new corn from year to year And out of old books, in good faith, Cometh all this new science that men learn.
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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.
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If were not foolish young, were foolish old.
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.
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And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
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