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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.

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
Cannot
Shirts
Although
Covet
Truly
Whine
Poverty
Fret
Accepting
Lacked
Rich
Accepts
Poor
Consumerism
Hope
Shirt

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Full wise is he that can himselven knowe.
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What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
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If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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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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Thus with hir fader for a certeyn space Dwelleth this flour of wyfly pacience, That neither by hir wordes ne hir face Biforn the folk, ne eek in her absence, Ne shewed she that hir was doon offence.
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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
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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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I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.
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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
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Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
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Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.
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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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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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For of fortunes sharp adversitee The worst kynde of infortune is this, A man to han ben in prosperitee, And it remembren, whan it passed is.
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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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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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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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