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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.

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
Ther
Hastily
May
Work

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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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But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
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For many a pasty have you robbed of blood, And many a Jack of Dover have you sold That has been heated twice and twice grown cold. From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse, For of your parsley they yet fare the worse, Which they have eaten with your stubble goose For in your shop full many a fly is loose.
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Make a virtue of necessity.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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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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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.
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Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?
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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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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
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People can die of mere imagination.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
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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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Certes, they been lye to hounds, for an hound when he cometh by the roses, or by other bushes, though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a countenance to pisse.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Mercy surpasses justice.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
Geoffrey Chaucer