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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.

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
Potent
Fancy
Imagination
Dies
People
Impressionable

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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 long to lerne.
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.
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One cannot scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure patiently, or else, as I live and breathe, you shall learn it whether you want or not.
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The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
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Mercy surpasses justice.
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At the ches with me she (Fortune) gan to pleye With her false draughts (pieces) dyvers/She staal on me, and took away my fers. And when I sawgh my fers awaye, Allas! I kouthe no lenger playe.
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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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
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And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.
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A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary.
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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. . . .
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But manly set the world on sixe and sevene And, if thou deye a martir, go to hevene.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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.
Geoffrey Chaucer