But Christ’s lore and his apostles twelve, He taught and first he followed it himself.
GEOFFREY CHAUCERAnd she was fair as is the rose in May.
More Geoffrey Chaucer Quotes
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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.
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He is gentle that doeth gentle deeds.
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A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.
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The fields have eyes, and the woods have ears.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER -
One shouldn’t be too inquisitive in life Either about God’s secrets or one’s wife.
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One flesh they are; and one flesh, so I’d guess, Has but one heart, come grief or happiness.
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Every honest miller has a golden thumb.
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I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
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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.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER -
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.
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A love grown old is not the love once new.
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Many small make a great.
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He loved chivalry, Truth and honor, freedom and courtesy.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER -
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.
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People can die of mere imagination.
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If gold rusts, what then can iron do?
GEOFFREY CHAUCER -
There’s never a new fashion but it’s old.
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Make a virtue of necessity.
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Death is the end of every worldly pain.
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And she was fair as is the rose in May.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER -
Woe to the cook whose sauce has no sting.
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Harde is his heart that loveth nought In May.
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Look up on high, and thank the God of all.
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Take a cat, nourish it well with milk and tender meat, make it a couch of silk.
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And gladly would he learn and gladly teach.
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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.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER