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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
Smoke
Fairs
Fair
Air
Right
Lighted
Every
Foul
Spoken
Loud

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Remember in the forms of speech comes change Within a thousand years, and words that then Were well esteemed, seem foolish now and strange And yet they spake them so, time and again, And thrived in love as well as any men And so to win their loves in sundry days, In sundry lands there are as many ways.
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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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.
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Trouthe is the hyest thyng that man may kepe.
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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Nowhere so busy a man as he there was And yet he seemed busier than he was.
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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.
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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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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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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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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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We little know the things for which we pray.
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If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
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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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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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He is gentle that doeth gentle deeds.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Forbid us something, and that thing we desire.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
Geoffrey Chaucer