Patience is a conquering virtue.
The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.
What is better than wisdom? Woman. And what is better than a good woman? Nothing.
People can die of mere imagination
If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained
The greatest scholars are not usually the wisest people
No empty handed man can lure a bird
The guilty think all talk is of themselves.
Forbid Us Something and That Thing we Desire
Life is short. Art long. Opportunity is fleeting. Expierience treacherous. Judgement difficult.
How potent is the fancy! People are so impressionable, they can die of imagination.
. . . 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. . . .
Ful wys is he that kan himselve knowe.
Purity in body and heart May please some--as for me, I make no boast. For, as you know, no master of a household Has all of his utensils made of gold; Some are wood, and yet they are of use.
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.
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.
I will eviscerate you in fiction. Every pimple, every character flaw. I was naked for a day; you will be naked for eternity. A Knight's Tale
You are the cause by which I die.
All that glitters is not gold,
But Christ's lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.
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.
Yet do not miss the moral, my good men. For Saint Paul says that all that’s written well Is written down some useful truth to tell. Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.
And once he had got really drunk on wine, Then he would speak no language but Latin.
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
One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I'd guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.
For hym was levere have at his beddes heed Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrie.
For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder is a common man should rust" -The Prologue of Chaucers Canterbury Tales-
And high above, depicted in a tower, Sat Conquest, robed in majesty and power, Under a sword that swung above his head, Sharp-edged and hanging by a subtle thread.
Time and Tide wait for no man
The man who has no wife is no cuckold.
Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye. Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye,
I'll die for stifled love, by all that's true.
Three years went by in happiness and health; He bore himself so well in peace and war That there was no one Theseus valued more.
And if love is, what thing and which is he? If love be good, from whennes cometh my woo?
Men may the wise atrenne, and naught atrede.
Thus in this heaven he took his delight And smothered her with kisses upon kisses Till gradually he came to know where bliss is.
For thus men seyth, "That on thenketh the beere, But al another thenketh his ledere.
And shame it is, if that a priest take keep, To see a shitten shepherd and clean sheep:
It is ful fair a man to bere him evene,/For alday meeteth men at unset stevene.
Be nat wrooth, my lord, though that I pleye. Ful ofte in game a sooth I have herd seye!
O woman’s counsel is so often cold! A woman’s counsel brought us first to woe, Made Adam out of Paradise to go Where he had been so merry, so well at ease.
But of no nombre mencioun made he, Of bigamye, or of octogamye33. Why sholde men thanne speke of it vileinye34?
Lo, which a greet thing is affeccioun! Men may die of imaginacioun, So depe may impressioun be take.
When that Aprille with his shoures sote. The droghte of Marche hath perced to the rote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertue engendred is the flour.
By God," quod he, "for pleynly, at a word, Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toord!
Then the Miller fell off his horse.
For sondry scoles maken sotile clerkis; Womman of manye scoles half a clerk is.
Ne nevere mo ne lakked hire pite; Tendre-herted, slydynge of corage; But trewely, I kan nat telle hire age.
