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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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Geoffrey Chaucer
Died: 1400
Died: October 25
Astrologer
Linguist
Lyricist
Philosopher
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer
Canterbury
Wisdom
Woman
Better
Nothing
Good

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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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He that loveth God will do diligence to please God by his works, and abandon himself, with all his might, well for to do.
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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
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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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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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For of fortunes sharp adversitee The worst kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.
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Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.
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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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The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne Al this mene I be love... For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this new corn fro yeer to yere And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
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One eare it heard, at the other out it went.
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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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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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Who looks at me, beholdeth sorrows all, All pain, all torture, woe and all distress I have no need on other harms to call, As anguish, languor, cruel bitterness, Discomfort, dread, and madness more and less Methinks from heaven above the tears must rain In pity for my harsh and cruel pain.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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