What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.— Geoffrey Chaucer
The most emotional Geoffrey Chaucer quotes that will activate your inner potential
All good things must come to an end.
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.
The devil can only destroy those who are already on their way to damnation.
Time and tide wait for no man.
The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
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.
That field hath eyen, and the wood hath ears.
Patience is a conquering virtue.
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.
If a man really loves a woman, of course he wouldn't marry her for the world if he were not quite sure that he was the best person she could possibly marry.
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
Who looks at me, beholdeth sorrows all, All pain, all torture, woe and all distress; I have no need on other harms to call, As anguish, languor, cruel bitterness, Discomfort, dread, and madness more and less; Methinks from heaven above the tears must rain In pity for my harsh and cruel pain.
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.
And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
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.
Love will not be constrain'd by mastery.
When mast'ry comes, the god of love anon Beateth his wings, and, farewell, he is gone. Love is a thing as any spirit free.
And then the wren gan scippen and to daunce.
By God, if women had written stories, As clerks had within here oratories, They would have written of men more wickedness Than all the mark of Adam may redress.
Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
Abstinence is approved of God.
For God's love, take things patiently, have sense, Think! We are prisoners and shall always be. Fortune has given us this adversity, Some wicked planetary dispensation, Some Saturn's trick or evil constellation Has given us this, and Heaven, though we had sworn The contrary, so stood when we were born. We must endure it, that's the long and short.
Every honest miller has a golden thumb.
Take a cat, nourish it well with milk and tender meat, make it a couch of silk.
Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
Strike while the iron is hot.
One cannot be avenged for every wrong;
according to the occasion, everyone who knows how, must use temperance.
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.
With empty hand no man can lure a hawk.
A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.
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.
Many a true word is spoken in jest
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.
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.
If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
For oute of olde feldys, as men sey, Comyth al this newe corn from yer to yere;
And out of olde bokis, in good fey, Comyth al this newe science that men lere.
For I have seyn of a ful misty morwe Folowen ful ofte a myrie someris day.
Filth and old age, I'm sure you will agree, are powerful wardens upon chastity.
This flour of wifly patience.
A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool;
And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school; For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary.
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.
Who then may trust the dice, at Fortune's throw?
The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
Drunkenness is the very sepulcher Of man's wit and his discretion.
. . . 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. . . .
Right as an aspen lefe she gan to quake.
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.