Geoffrey Chaucer - Troilus and Criseyde

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He helde about him alway, out of drede,
A world of folke.

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

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

Geoffrey Chaucer
Ye knowe ek that in forme of speche is chaunge
Withinne a thousand yeer, and wordes tho
That hadden pris, now wonder nyce and straunge
Us thinketh hem, and yet thei spake hem so.

Geoffrey Chaucer
For he that naught n' assaieth, naught
n' acheveth.

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
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
Or as an ook comth of a litel spir,
So thorugh this lettre, which that she hym sente,
Encressen gan desir, of which he brente.

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

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
O moral Gower, this book I directe
To the.

Geoffrey Chaucer
But the Troian gestes, as they felle,
In Omer, or in Dares, or in Dite,
Whoso that kan may rede hem as they write.

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
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
For which he wex a litel red for shame,
Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen,
That to beholde it was a noble game,
How sobreliche he caste doun his yen.
Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen,
And let so softe it in her herte sinke
That to herself she seyde, Who yaf me drinke?

Geoffrey Chaucer
But manly sette the world on six and sevene; And if thow deye a martyr, go to hevene!

Geoffrey Chaucer
For of fortunes sharp adversitee
The worst kynde of infortune is this,
A man to han ben in prosperitee,
And it remembren, whan it passed is.

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
And as the newe abaysed nyghtyngale,
That stynteth first whan she bygynneth to synge.

Geoffrey Chaucer
Lord, this is an huge rayn!
This were a weder for to slepen inne!

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

Geoffrey Chaucer