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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.

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
Loud
Smoke
Fairs
Fair
Air
Right
Lighted
Every
Foul
Spoken

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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.
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One cannot be avenged for every wrong according to the occasion, everyone who knows how, must use temperance.
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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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Patience is a conquering virtue. The learned say that, if it not desert you, It vanquishes what force can never reach Why answer back at every angry speech? No, learn forbearance or, I'll tell you what, You will be taught it, whether you will or not.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.
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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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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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Ther is no newe gyse that it nas old.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?
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People can die of mere imagination.
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To keep demands as much skill as to win.
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Truth is the highest thing that man may keep.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer