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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
Iron
Gold
Rusts
Rust

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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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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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In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.
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Patience is a conquering virtue.
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He is gentle that doeth gentle deeds.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.
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Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
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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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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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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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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
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We little know the things for which we pray.
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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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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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
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Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Geoffrey Chaucer