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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.

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
Roses
Legs
Rose
Though
Hound
May
Cometh
Make
Bushes
Hounds
Countenance

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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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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.
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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 smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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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
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The lyf so short, the craft so longe to lerne. Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge, The dredful joye, alwey that slit so yerne Al this mene I be love... For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this new corn fro yeer to yere And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.
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All good things must come to an end.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.
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Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
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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.
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People can die of mere imagination.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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Fie on possession, But if a man be vertuous withal.
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The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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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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