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If were not foolish young, were foolish old.

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
Folly
Foolish
Young

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For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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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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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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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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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
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I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
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We little know the things for which we pray.
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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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Patience is a conquering virtue.
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Death is the end of every worldly pain.
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Remember in the forms of speech comes change Within a thousand years, and words that then Were well esteemed, seem foolish now and strange And yet they spake them so, time and again, And thrived in love as well as any men And so to win their loves in sundry days, In sundry lands there are as many ways.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Make a virtue of necessity.
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.
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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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer