Geoffrey Chaucer - Love Quotes

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Of all the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures white and rede,
Soch that men callen daisies in our toun.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer
A yokel mind loves stories from of old, Being the kind it can repeat and hold.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ye knowe eek, that in forme of speche is chaunge
Withinne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden prys, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem; and yet they spake hem so,
And spedde as wel in love as men now do;
Eek for to winne love in sondry ages,
In sondry londes, sondry ben usages.

Geoffrey Chaucer
For evere it was, and evere it shal byfalle,
That Love is he that alle thing may bynde,
For may no man fordon the lawe of kynde.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee
As wel over hir housbond as hir love.

Geoffrey Chaucer
O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up-groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke God that after his image
Yow made, and thynketh al nis but a faire
This world, that passeth sone as floures faire.

Geoffrey Chaucer
What is this world? what asketh men to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave
Allone, withouten any compaignye.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrye.
When maistrie comth, the God of Love anon
Beteth his wynges, and farewel, he is gon!
Love is a thyng as any spirit free.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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?

Geoffrey Chaucer
O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with youre age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanyte.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Love is a thyng as any spirit free.
Wommen, of kynde, desiren libertee,
And nat to been constreyned as a thral;
And so doon men, if I sooth seyen shal.

Geoffrey Chaucer
But love a womman that she woot it nought,
And she wol quyte it that thow shalt nat fele;
Unknowe, unkist, and lost, that is unsought.

Geoffrey Chaucer
"My lige lady, generally," quod he,
"Wommen desiren have sovereynetee As well over hir housbond as hir love."

Geoffrey Chaucer
Venus clerk Ovide,
That hath ysowen wonder wide
The grete god of Loves name.

Geoffrey Chaucer
God loveth, and to love wol nought werne,
And in this world no lyves creature
Withouten love is worth, or may endure.

Geoffrey Chaucer
'My lige lady, generally,' quod he, 'Wommen desyren to have sovereyntee As well over hir housbond as hir love.'

Geoffrey Chaucer
Love is noght oold as whan that it is newe.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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!

Geoffrey Chaucer
Of al the floures in the mede,
Thanne love I most thise floures white and rede,
Swiche as men callen daysyes in our toun.

Geoffrey Chaucer