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I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.

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
Gave
Hold
Literature
Whole
Heart

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Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
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At the ches with me she (Fortune) gan to pleye With her false draughts (pieces) dyvers/She staal on me, and took away my fers. And when I sawgh my fers awaye, Allas! I kouthe no lenger playe.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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He is gentle that doeth gentle deeds.
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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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The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
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One eare it heard, at the other out it went.
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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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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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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 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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Geoffrey Chaucer