Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 – 1400)
English author, poet, philosopher, bureaucrat, and diplomat.
But yet that holden this tale a folly,
As of a fox, or of a cock and hen,
Taketh the morality, good men.
For Saint Paul saith that all that written is,
To our doctrine it is y-writ, ywis;
Taketh the fruit, and let the chaff be still.
For him was lever han at his beddes hed
A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red,
Of Aristotle, and his philosophie,
Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie.
But all be that he was a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
Allas! allas! that evere love was synne!
In his owen grese I made him frie.
What maketh this, but Juppiter the kyng,
That is prince and cause of alle thyng
Convertynge al unto his propre welle
From which it is deryved, sooth to telle,
And heer-agayns no creature on lyve
Of no degree availleth for to strive.
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.
And of his port as meke as is a mayde.
For I am shave as neigh as any frere.
But yit I praye unto youre curteisye:
Beeth hevy again, or elles moot I die.
The gretteste clerkes been noght wisest men.
So was hire joly whistle wel ywette.
The smylere with the knyf under the cloke.
Ful wys is he that kan hymselven knowe!
He was a verray, parfit gentil knyght.
Oon ere it herde, at tothir out it wente.
And for to see, and eek for to be seie.
Min be the travaille, and thin be the glorie.
A Clerk ther was of Oxenforde also.
And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
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.
And therfore, at the kynges court, my brother,
Ech man for hymself, ther is noon other.