Geoffrey Chaucer

And ther he saugh, with ful avysement

O yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she,

That lyf so short,

For of fortunes sharpe adversitee

And she was fayr as is the rose in May.

Wommen desiren to have sovereynetee

Yblessed be god that I have wedded fyve! Welcome the sixte, whan that evere he shal.

A likerous mouth moste han a likerous tayl.

Mordre wol out; that se we day by day.

Love wol nat been constreyned by maistrye.

Housbondes at chirche dore she hadde fyve.

This noble ensample to his sheep he yaf,

Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,

And theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly,

The wrastling for this world axeth a fal.

Reule wel thyself, that other folk canst rede. And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede.

Thing that is seyd is seyd; and forth it gooth.

For the proverbe seith that “manye smale maken a greet.” 16

For whan a man hath over-greet a wit, Ful oft hym happeth to mysusen it.

My sone, keep wel thy tonge, and keep thy freend.

He was of knyghthod and of fredom flour.

Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!

This may wel be rym dogerel.

Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille. 15

Trouthe is the hyeste thyng that men may kepe.

For dronkenesse is verray sepulture Of mannes wit and his discrecioun.

Servant in love and lord in marriage.

It is agayns the proces of nature.

Pacience is an heigh vertu, certeyn.

But if a man be vertuous withal.

Men loven of propre kynde newefangelnesse.

Therfore bihoveth hire a ful long spoon That shal ete with a feend. 14

For love is blynd. 13

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