Quote #30
The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
More from Geoffrey Chaucer
- For May wol have no slogardie a-night. The seson priketh every gentil herte, And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte.
- And therfore, at the kynges court, my brother, Ech man for hymself, ther is noon oother.
- Who so shall telle a tale after a man, He moste reherse, as neighe as ever he can, Everich word, if it be in his charge, All speke he never…
- Thanne is it wysdom, as it thynketh me, To maken vertu of necessitee.
- And yet he had a thomb of gold parde.
- What is this world? what asketh men to have? Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any compaignye.
- But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, He taught; but first he folwed it himselve.
- This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro; Deeth is an ende of every worldly soore.