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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.

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
Cold
Fire

More quotes by 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
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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At the ches with me she (Fortune) gan to pleye With her false draughts (pieces) dyvers/She staal on me, and took away my fers. And when I sawgh my fers awaye, Allas! I kouthe no lenger playe.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
Geoffrey Chaucer
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First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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But manly set the world on sixe and sevene And, if thou deye a martir, go to hevene.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?
Geoffrey Chaucer
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To keep demands as much skill as to win.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Death is the end of every worldly pain.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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. . . .
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
Geoffrey Chaucer