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For out of old fields, as men saith, Cometh all this new corn from year to year And out of old books, in good faith, Cometh all this new science that men learn.

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
Faith
Learn
Science
Saith
Book
Cometh
Years
Corn
Good
Fields
Men
Books
Year

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In love there is but little rest.
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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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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
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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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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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For tyme y-lost may not recovered be.
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One shouldn't be too inquisitive in life Either about God's secrets or one's wife.
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The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly - by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous operation, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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Women naturally desire the same six things as I they want their husbands to be brave, wise, rich, generous with money, obedient to the wife, and lively in bed.
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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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. . . if gold rust, what then will iron do?/ For if a priest be foul in whom we trust/ No wonder that a common man should rust. . . .
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He that loveth God will do diligence to please God by his works, and abandon himself, with all his might, well for to do.
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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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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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Mercy surpasses justice.
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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