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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

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
Hath
March
Book
Canterbury
Hem

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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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This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
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Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.
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Death is the end of every worldly pain.
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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
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And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
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Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
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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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Murder will out, this my conclusion.
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The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people.
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For many a pasty have you robbed of blood, And many a Jack of Dover have you sold That has been heated twice and twice grown cold. From many a pilgrim have you had Christ's curse, For of your parsley they yet fare the worse, Which they have eaten with your stubble goose For in your shop full many a fly is loose.
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Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe.
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Many a true word is spoken in jest
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The bisy larke, messager of day.
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The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
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'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'
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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 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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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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How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
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