Proverbs
Proverbe of Chaucer
What shul these clothes thus manyfold,
Lo this hote somers day?
After grete hete cometh cold;
No man caste his pilche away.
Of al this world the large compas
Yt wil not in myn armes tweyne;
Who so mochel wol embrace,
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Proverbs of Chaucer
Proverbe of Chaucer
What shul these clothes thus manyfold,
Lo this hote somers day?
After grete hete cometh cold;
No man caste his pilche away.
Of al this world the large compas
Yt wil not in myn armes tweyne;
Who so mochel wol embrace,
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Chaucers Wordes unto Adam
Adam scriveyn, if ever it thee bifalle
Boece or Troylus for to wryten newe,
Under thy long lokkes thou most have the scalle,
But after my makyng thow wryte more trewe;
So ofte adaye I mot thy werk renewe,
It to correcte and eke to rubbe and scrape,
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Chaucer's Words to His Scrivener
Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall
Boece or Troilus for to write anew,
Under thy long locks thou may'st have the scall
But after my making thou write more true!
So oft a day I must thy work renew,
It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape;
And all is through thy negligence and rape.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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A Cook
They had a cook with them who stood alone
For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone,
Sharp flavouring powder and a spice for savour.
He could distinguish London ale by flavour,
And he could roast and boil and seethe and fry,
Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie...
As for blancmange, he made it with the best.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Rondeau III
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat,
I nere thinke to ben in his prison lene;
Syn I am fre, I count hym not a bene.
He may answere, and sey this and that,
I do no fors, I speke ryght as I mene ;
Syn I fro love escaped am so fat.
Love hath my name i-strike out of his sclat,
And he is strike out of my bokes clene :
For ever mo ther is non other mene,
Syn I fro love escaped &c.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Since I From Love
Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I ne'er think to be in his prison ta'en;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean.
He may answer, and saye this and that;
I do no force, I speak right as I mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.
Love hath my name struck out of his slat,
And he is struck out of my bookes clean,
For ever more; there is none other mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Chaucer's Prophecy
When priestes failen in their saws,
And lordes turne Godde's laws
Against the right;
And lechery is holden as privy solace,
And robbery as free purchase,
Beware then of ill!
Then shall the Land of Albion
Turne to confusion,
As sometime it befell.
Ora pro Anglia Sancta Maria, quod Thomas Cantuaria.
Sweet Jesus, heaven's King,
Fair and best of all thing,
You bring us out of this mourning,
To come to thee at our ending!
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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Roundel
Now welcome Summer with thy sunne soft,
That hast this winter`s weathers overshake,
And driven away the longe nighties black.
Saint Valentine, that art full high aloft,
Thus singen smalle fowles for thy sake:
Now welcome Summer with tye sunne soft,
That hast this winter`s weathers overshake.
Well have they cause for to gladden oft,
Wince each of them recovered hath his make.
Full blissful may they singe when they wake:
Now welcome Summer with they sunne soft,
That has this winters weathers overshake,
And driven away the longe nighties black.
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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The Love Unfeigned
O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
poem by Geoffrey Chaucer
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