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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.

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
Else
Complain
Cannot
Complaining
Live
Breathe
Every
Endure
Shall
Word
Whether
Scold
Learn
Patiently

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Filth and old age, I'm sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.
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With emptie hands men may no haukes lure.
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The devil can only destroy those who are already on their way to damnation.
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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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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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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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Patience is a conquering virtue.
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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.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
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For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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In love there is but little rest.
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I gave my whole heart up, for him to hold.
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But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'
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Men sholde nat knowe of Goddes pryvetee Ye, blessed be alwey, a lewed man That noght but oonly his believe kan! So ferde another clerk with astromye, He walked in the feelds, for to prye Upon the sterres, what ther sholde bifalle, Til he was in a marle-pit yfalle.
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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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Who looks at me, beholdeth sorrows all, All pain, all torture, woe and all distress I have no need on other harms to call, As anguish, languor, cruel bitterness, Discomfort, dread, and madness more and less Methinks from heaven above the tears must rain In pity for my harsh and cruel pain.
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