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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
Translator
Writer
London
England
Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer
Herd
Herds
Gold
Told
Thing

More quotes by Geoffrey Chaucer

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What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
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For tyme ylost may nought recovered be.
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The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
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The guilty think all talk is of themselves.
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If were not foolish young, were foolish old.
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Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
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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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Alas, alas, that ever love was sin! I ever followed natural inclination Under the power of my constellation And was unable to deny, in truth, My chamber of Venus to a likely youth.
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To keep demands as much skill as to win.
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The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
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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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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
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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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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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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.
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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.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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In love there is but little rest.
Geoffrey Chaucer
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Fo lo, the gentil kind of the lioun! For when a flye offendeth him or byteth, He with his tayl awey the flye smyteth Al esily, for, of his genterye, Him deyneth net to wreke him on a flye, As cloth a curre or elles another beste.
Geoffrey Chaucer