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Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

-Geoffrey Chaucer

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Drunkenness Is The Very

Geoffrey Chaucer

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Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

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Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote The Droghte Of March Hath Perced To The Roote.

Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire Yreken.

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.

Women Naturally Desire The Same Six Things As I; They Want Their Husbands To Be Brave, Wise, Rich, Generous With Money, Obedient To The Wife, And Lively In Bed.

Pitee Renneth Soone In Gentil Herte.

The Handsome Gifts That Fate And Nature Lend Us Most Often Are The Very Ones That End Us.

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 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.

Or As An Ook Comth Of A Litel Spir, So Thorugh This Lettre, Which That She Hym Sente, Encressen Gan Desir, Of Which He Brente.

One Shouldn't Be Too Inquisitive In Life Either About God's Secrets Or One's Wife.

There's Never A New Fashion But It's Old.

How Potent Is The Fancy! People Are So Impressionable, They Can Die Of Imagination.

Take A Cat, Nourish It Well With Milk And Tender Meat, Make It A Couch Of Silk.

But All Thing Which That Shineth As The Gold Ne Is No Gold, As I Have Herd It Told.

Many Small Make A Great.

Thou Shalt Make Castels Thanne In Spayne And Dreme Of Joye, All But In Vayne.

One Cannot Be Avenged For Every Wrong; According To The Occasion, Everyone Who Knows How, Must Use Temperance.

That He Is Gentil That Doth Gentil Dedis.

Full Wise Is He That Can Himselven Knowe.

Mordre Wol Out, That Se We Day By Day.

At The Ches With Me She (fortune) Gan To Pleye; With Her False Draughts (pieces) Dyvers/she Staal On Me, And Took Away My Fers. And When I Sawgh My Fers Awaye, Allas! I Kouthe No Lenger Playe.

He Loved Chivalrye Trouthe And Honour, Freedom And Curteisye.

Make A Virtue Of Necessity.

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.

Min Be The Travaille, And Thin Be The Glorie.

People Can Die Of Mere Imagination.

The Bisy Larke, Messager Of Day.

Ek Gret Effect Men Write In Place Lite; Th'entente Is Al, And Nat The Lettres Space.

In General, Women Desire To Rule Over Their Husbands And Lovers, To Be The Authority Above Them.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Long To Lerne.

What's Said Is Said And Goes Upon Its Way Like It Or Not, Repent It As You May.

For I Have Seyn Of A Ful Misty Morwe Folowen Ful Ofte A Myrie Someris Day.

And When A Beest Is Deed, He Hath No Peyne; But Man After His Deeth Moot Wepe And Pleyne.

Mercy Surpasses Justice.

The Guilty Think All Talk Is Of Themselves.

With Empty Hand No Man Can Lure A Hawk.

And Gladly Wolde He Lerne, And Gladly Teche.

Canterbury Tales

A Yokel Mind Loves Stories From Of Old, Being The Kind It Can Repeat And Hold.

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.

So Was Hir Jolly Whistel Wel Y-wette.

And For To See, And Eek For To Be Seie.

'my Lige Lady, Generally,' Quod He, 'wommen Desyren To Have Sovereyntee As Well Over Hir Housbond As Hir Love.'

In The Stars Is Written The Death Of Every Man.

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.

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.

A Love Grown Old Is Not The Love Once New.

And Brought Of Mighty Ale A Large Quart.

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.

Lat Take A Cat, And Fostre Him Wel With Milk, And Tendre Flesh, And Make His Couche Of Silk, And Let Him Seen A Mous Go By The Wal; Anon He Weyveth Milk, And Flesh, And Al, And Every Deyntee That Is In That Hous, Swich Appetyt Hath He To Ete A Mous.

Whoso Will Pray, He Must Fast And Be Clean, And Fat His Soul, And Make His Body Lean.

Men Love Newfangleness.

The Latter End Of Joy Is Woe.

Great Peace Is Found In Little Busy-ness.

I Am Right Sorry For Your Heavinesse.

Time Lost, As Men May See, For Nothing May Recovered Be.

For Thogh We Slepe, Or Wake, Or Rome, Or Ryde, Ay Fleeth The Tyme; It Nyl No Man Abyde.

And Then The Wren Gan Scippen And To Daunce.

That Field Hath Eyen, And The Wood Hath Ears.

Walls Have Ears

Til That The Brighte Sonne Loste His Hewe; For Th'orisonte Hath Reft The Sonne His Lyght; This Is As Muche To Seye As It Was Nyght!

If Gold Ruste, What Shall Iren Do?

And As For Me, Thogh That I Can But Lyte, On Bakes For To Rede I Me Delyte, And To Hem Yeve I Feyth And Ful Credence, And In Myn Herte Have Hem In Reverence So Hertely, That Ther Is Game Noon, That Fro My Bokes Maketh Me To Goon, But Hit Be Seldom, On The Holyday; Save, Certeynly, When That The Month Of May Is Comen, And That I Here The Foules Singe, And That The Floures Ginnen For To Springe, Farwel My Book And My Devocion.

But Al Be That He Was A Philosophre, Yet Hadde He But Litel Gold In Cofre.

Canterbury Tales

Right As An Aspen Lefe She Gan To Quake.

The Greatest Scholars Are Not Usually The Wisest People.

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.

I Hold A Mouses Wit Not Worth A Leke, That Hath But On Hole For To Sterten To.

Ther Nis No Werkman, Whatsoevere He Be, That May Bothe Werke Wel And Hastily.

Fie On Possession, But If A Man Be Vertuous Withal.

For Tyme Ylost May Nought Recovered Be.

And So It Is In Politics, Dear Brother, Each For Himself Alone, There Is No Other.

Look Up On High, And Thank The God Of All.

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.

I Wol Yow Telle, As Was Me Taught Also, The Foure Spirites And The Bodies Sevene, By Ordre, As Ofte I Herde My Lord Hem Nevene. The Firste Spirit Quiksilver Called Is, The Second Orpiment, The Thridde, Ywis, Sal Armoniak, And The Firthe Brimstoon. The Bodies Sevene Eek, Lo! Hem Heer Anoon: Sol Gold Is, And Luna Silver We Threpe, Mars Yron, Mercurie Quiksilver We Clepe, Saturnus Leed, And Jupiter Is Tin, And Venus Coper, By My Fader Kin!

Harde Is His Heart That Loveth Nought In May.

One Cannot Scold Or Complain At Every Word. Learn To Endure Patiently, Or Else, As I Live And Breathe, You Shall Learn It Whether You Want Or Not.

All Good Things Must Come To An End.

Forbid Us Something, And That Thing We Desire.

To Keep Demands As Much Skill As To Win.

For There Is One Thing I Can Safely Say: That Those Bound By Love Must Obey Each Other If They Are To Keep Company Long. Love Will Not Be Constrained By Mastery; When Mastery Comes, The God Of Love At Once Beats His Wings, And Farewell He Is Gone. Love Is A Thing As Free As Any Spirit; Women Naturally Desire Liberty, And Not To Be Constrained Like Slaves; And So Do Men, If I Shall Tell The Truth.

Time And Tide Wait For No Man.

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 Would He Learn, And Gladly Teach

With Emptie Hands Men May No Haukes Lure.

It Is Nought Good A Sleping Hound To Wake.

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.

One Flesh They Are; And One Flesh, So I'd Guess, Has But One Heart, Come Grief Or Happiness.

Loke Who That Is Most Vertuous Alway, Prive And Apert, And Most Entendeth Ay To Do The Gentil Dedes That He Can, And Take Him For The Gretest Gentilman.

Ful Wys Is He That Kan Hymselven Knowe.

Yblessed Be God That I Have Wedded Fyve! Welcome The Sixte, Whan That Evere He Shal.

Filth And Old Age, I'm Sure You Will Agree, Are Powerful Wardens Upon Chastity.

First He Wrought, And Afterwards He Taught.

If Were Not Foolish Young, Were Foolish Old.

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.

Who Then May Trust The Dice, At Fortune's Throw?

Felds Hath Eyen, And Wode Have Eres.

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.

One Eare It Heard, At The Other Out It Went.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

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.

. . . 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. . . .

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 Proverbe Saith That Many A Smale Maketh A Grate.

The Cat Would Eat Fish But Would Not Get Her Feet Wet.

Certain, When I Was Born, So Long Ago, Death Drew The Tap Of Life And Let It Flow; And Ever Since The Tap Has Done Its Task, And Now There's Little But An Empty Cask.

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.

But Christ's Lore And His Apostles Twelve, He Taught And First He Followed It Himself.

In Love There Is But Little Rest.

Trouthe Is The Hyest Thyng That Man May Kepe.

The Fields Have Eyes, And The Woods Have Ears.

And She Was Fair As Is The Rose In May.

He Is Gentle That Doeth Gentle Deeds.

Every Honest Miller Has A Golden Thumb.

Habit Maketh No Monk, Ne Wearing Of Gilt Spurs Maketh No Knight.

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.

He That Loveth God Will Do Diligence To Please God By His Works, And Abandon Himself, With All His Might, Well For To Do.

Patience Is A Conquering Virtue.

Canterbury Tales

Woe To The Cook Whose Sauce Has No Sting.

Oon Ere It Herde, At Tother Out It Went.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

Eke Wonder Last But Nine Deies Never In Toun.

My House Is Small, But You Are Learned Men And By Your Arguments Can Make A Place Twenty Foot Broad As Infinite As Space.

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.

Abstinence Is Approved Of God.

Nowhere So Busy A Man As He There Was And Yet He Seemed Busier Than He Was.

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.

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.

There Was The Murdered Corpse, In Covert Laid, And Violent Death In Thousand Shapes Displayed; The City To The Soldier's Rage Resigned; Successless Wars, And Poverty Behind; Ships Burnt In Fight, Or Forced On Rocky Shores, And The Rash Hunter Strangled By The Boars; The Newborn Babe By Nurses Overlaid; And The Cook Caught Within The Raging Fire He Made.

Truth Is The Highest Thing That Man May Keep.

For Tyme Y-lost May Not Recovered Be.

Of Alle The Floures In The Mede, Than Love I Most These Floures Whyte And Rede, Swiche As Men Callen Daysies In Our Toun. . . . . Til That Myn Herte Dye. . . . . That Wel By Reson Men Hit Calle May The 'dayesye' Or Elles The 'ye Of Day,' The Emperice And Flour Of Floures Alle. I Pray To God That Faire Mot She Falle, And Alle That Loven Floures, For Hir Sake!

Death Is The End Of Every Worldly Pain.

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.

The Lyf So Short, The Craft So Longe To Lerne. Th' Assay So Hard, So Sharp The Conquerynge, The Dredful Joye, Alwey That Slit So Yerne; Al This Mene I Be Love... For Out Of Olde Feldes, As Men Seith, Cometh Al This New Corn Fro Yeer To Yere; And Out Of Olde Bokes, In Good Feith, Cometh Al This Newe Science That Men Lere.

The Devil Can Only Destroy Those Who Are Already On Their Way To Damnation.

The Gretteste Clerkes Been Noght Wisest Men.

But, Lord Crist! Whan That It Remembreth Me Upon My Yowthe, And On My Jolitee, It Tickleth Me Aboute Myn Herte Roote. Unto This Day It Dooth Myn Herte Boote That I Have Had My World As In My Tyme. But Age, Alias! That Al Wole Envenyme, Hath Me Biraft My Beautee And My Pith. Lat Go, Farewel! The Devel Go Therwith! The Flour Is Goon, Ther Is Namoore To Telle; The Bren, As I Best Kan, Now Most I Selle.

Many A True Word Is Spoken In Jest

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.

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.

What Is Better Than Wisdom? Woman. And What Is Better Than A Good Woman? Nothing.

Canterbury Tales

Certes, They Been Lye To Hounds, For An Hound When He Cometh By The Roses, Or By Other Bushes, Though He May Nat Pisse, Yet Wole He Heve Up His Leg And Make A Countenance To Pisse.

There's No Workman, Whatsoever He Be, That May Both Work Well And Hastily.

Of Harmes Two The Lesse Is For To Cheese.

The Smylere With The Knyf Under The Cloke.

Strike While The Iron Is Hot.

Drunkenness Is The Very Sepulcher Of Man's Wit And His Discretion.

We Little Know The Things For Which We Pray.

But Manly Set The World On Sixe And Sevene; And, If Thou Deye A Martir, Go To Hevene.

By Nature, Men Love Newfangledness.

This Flour Of Wifly Patience.

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

If Love Be Good, From Whence Cometh My Woe?

This World Nys But A Thurghfare Ful Of Wo, And We Been Pilgrymes, Passynge To And Fro.

I Gave My Whole Heart Up, For Him To Hold.

Nature, The Vicar Of The Almighty Lord.

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.

If Gold Rusts, What Then Can Iron Do?

I Am Not The Rose, But I Have Lived Near The Rose.

Ther Is No Newe Gyse That It Nas Old.

Murder Will Out, This My Conclusion.

To Maken Vertue Of Necessite.

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