Literature and Words

My library Was dukedom large enough.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime.

Be thou the tenth Muse.

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens.

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.

A rhapsody of words.

These trees shall be my books.

But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless.

Charm ache with air and agony with words.

Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt?

A deal of skimble-skamble stuff.

How long a time lies in one little word!

Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, And burned is Apollo’s laurel bough, That sometime grew within this learned man.

I’ll burn my books!

This may wel be rym dogerel.

Whoso shal telle a tale after a man, He moot reherce as ny as evere he kan Everich a word, if it be in his charge, Al speke he never so rudeliche and large, Or ellis he moot telle his tale untrewe, Or feyne thyng, or fynde wordes new.

Ful weel she soong the service dyvyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frenssh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe For Frenssh of Parys was to hir unknowe.

He koude songes make and wel endyte.

O moral Gower, this book I directe To the.

Whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farewel my bok, and my devocioun!

Go, litel bok, go, litel myn tragedye. 7

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

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

For out of olde feldes, as men seyth, Cometh al this newe corn fro yer to yere; 2 And out of olde bokes, in good feyth, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.