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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.

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
Land
Lands
Spiritual
Doth
Nature
Distant
Sundry
Heart
Foreign
Renowned
Long
Spirituality
Shrines
People
Seeking
Pilgrimage
Hearts
Strands
Journey
Stir

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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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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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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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The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.
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In love there is but little rest.
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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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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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Alas, alas, that ever love was sin! I ever followed natural inclination Under the power of my constellation And was unable to deny, in truth, My chamber of Venus to a likely youth.
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For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
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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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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
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In general, women desire to rule over their husbands and lovers, to be the authority above them.
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But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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