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If gold rusts, what then can iron do?

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
Rusts
Rust
Iron
Gold

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The cat would eat fish but would not get her feet wet.
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.
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Make a virtue of necessity.
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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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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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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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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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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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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
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Soun is noght but air ybroken, And every speche that is spoken, Loud or privee, foul or fair, In his substaunce is but air For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke, Right so soun is air ybroke.
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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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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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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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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.
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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.
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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
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If were not foolish young, were foolish old.
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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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The devil can only destroy those who are already on their way to damnation.
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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