Geoffrey Chaucer - Nat Quotes

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What maketh this, but Juppiter the kyng,
That is prince and cause of alle thyng
Convertynge al unto his propre welle
From which it is deryved, sooth to telle,
And heer-agayns no creature on lyve
Of no degree availleth for to strive. Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me,
To maken vertu of necessity,
And take it weel, that we may nat eschue;
And namely, that to us alle is due.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Certes, they been lyk to houndes, for an hound whan he comth by the roser, or by other bushes, though he may nat pisse, yet wole he heve up his leg and make a contenaunce to pisse.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille.

Geoffrey Chaucer
'By God,' quod he, 'for pleynly, at a word,
Thy drasty rymyng is nat worth a toord!'

Geoffrey Chaucer
Yblessed be god that I have wedded fyve!
Welcome the sixte, whan that evere he shal.
For sothe, I wol nat kepe me chaast in al.
Whan myn housbonde is fro the world ygon,
Som Cristen man shall wedde me anon.

Geoffrey Chaucer
What thyng we may nat lightly have, Thereafter wol we crie al day and crave.

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
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
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
Redeth the grete poete of Ytaille
That highte Dant, for he kan al devyse
Fro point to point; nat o word wol he faille.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ek gret effect men write in place lite;
Th' entente is al, and nat the lettres space.

Geoffrey Chaucer
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.

Geoffrey Chaucer