Geoffrey Chaucer - Ful Quotes

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For I have seyn, of a ful misty morwe Folowen ful often a myrie someris day.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne,
Entuned in hir nose ful semely,
And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe,
For Frenssh of Parys was to hire unknowe.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ful craftier to pley she was
Than Athalus, that made the game
First of the ches, so was his name.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Therfore bihoveth hire a ful long spoon
That shal ete with a feend.

Geoffrey Chaucer
He hadde a croys of latoun ful of stones,
And in a glas he hadde pigges bones.
But with thise relikes, whan that he fond
A povre person dwellynge upon lond,
Upon a day he gat hym moore moneye
Than that the person gat in monthes tweye.

Geoffrey Chaucer
For whan a man hath over-greet a wit,
Ful oft hym happeth to mysusen it.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Of smal coral aboute hire arm she bar
A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene,
And theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,
On which ther was first write a crowned A,
And after Amor vincit omnia.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Of studie took he most cure and most hede.
Noght o word spak he more than was nede,
And that was seyd in forme and reverence,
And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence.
Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

Geoffrey Chaucer
And whan that he was slayn in this manere,
His lighte goost ful blisfully is went
Up to the holughnesse of the eighthe spere,
In convers letyng everich element;
And ther he saugh, with ful avysement
The erratik sterres, herkenyng armonye
With sownes ful of hevenyssh melodie.

Geoffrey Chaucer
This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo,
And we been pilgrymes, passing to and fro.
Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.

Geoffrey Chaucer
For I have seyn of a ful misty morwe
Folowen ful ofte a myrie someris day.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer