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

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A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary.
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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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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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
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First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
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There's no workman, whatsoever he be, That may both work well and hastily.
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Mercy surpasses justice.
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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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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
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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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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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One cannot scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure patiently, or else, as I live and breathe, you shall learn it whether you want or not.
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In love there is but little rest.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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
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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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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
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