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Patience is a conquering virtue.
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
Conquering
Conquer
Patience
Virtue
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First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
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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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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
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One eare it heard, at the other out it went.
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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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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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He who accepts his poverty unhurt I'd say is rich although he lacked a shirt. But truly poor are they who whine and fret and covet what they cannot hope to get.
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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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'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
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We little know the things for which we pray.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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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 guilty think all talk is of themselves.
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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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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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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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Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.
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