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But all thing which that shineth as the gold Ne is no gold, as I have herd it told.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Geoffrey Chaucer
Died: 1400
Died: October 25
Astrologer
Linguist
Lyricist
Philosopher
Poet
Politician
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London
England
Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer
Thing
Herd
Herds
Gold
Told
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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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 fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
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The devil can only destroy those who are already on their way to damnation.
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The guilty think all talk is of themselves.
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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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Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be, That may bothe werke wel and hastily.
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Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
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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.
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All good things must come to an end.
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Time lost, as men may see, For nothing may recovered be.
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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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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
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Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
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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 handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.
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But manly set the world on sixe and sevene And, if thou deye a martir, go to hevene.
Geoffrey Chaucer
And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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.
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