Geoffrey Chaucer - Ther Quotes

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And therfore, at the kynges court, my brother,
Ech man for hymself, ther is noon other.

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
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
Ther nis no werkman, whatsoevere he be,
That may bothe werke wel and hastily.

Geoffrey Chaucer
For certein, whan that Fortune list to flee,
Ther may no man the cours of hire withholde.

Geoffrey Chaucer
And therefore, at the kynges court, my brother,
Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ther nys no werkman, whatsoevere he be,
That may bothe werke wel and hastily;
This wol be doon at leyser parfitly.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ther n' is no werkman whatever he be,
That may both werken wel and hastily. 4
This wol be done at leisure parfitly.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,
And yet he semed bisier than he was.

Geoffrey Chaucer
And for ther is so gret diversite
In Englissh and in writyng of oure tonge,
So prey I God that non myswrite the,
Ne the mysmetre for defaute of tonge;
And red wherso thow be, or elles songe,
That thow be understonde, God I biseche!

Geoffrey Chaucer
A Somonour was ther with us in that place,
That hadde a fyr-reed cherubynnes face,
For saucefleem he was, with eyen narwe.
As hoot he was and lecherous as a sparwe.

Geoffrey Chaucer
The tyme, that may not sojourne But goth, and never may retourne, As water that down runneth ay, But never drope retourne may; Ther may no-thing as tyme endure, Metal, nor erthely creature; For alle thing it fret, and shal: The tyme eek, that chaungeth al, And all doth waxe and fostred be, And alle thing destroyeth he.

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
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