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Murder will out, this my conclusion.

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
Literature
Conclusion
Murder

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We little know the things for which we pray.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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To keep demands as much skill as to win.
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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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What's said is said and goes upon its way Like it or not, repent it as you may.
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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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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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But manly set the world on sixe and sevene And, if thou deye a martir, go to hevene.
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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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If were not foolish young, were foolish old.
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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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In love there is but little rest.
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Fo lo, the gentil kind of the lioun! For when a flye offendeth him or byteth, He with his tayl awey the flye smyteth Al esily, for, of his genterye, Him deyneth net to wreke him on a flye, As cloth a curre or elles another beste.
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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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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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