Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 – 1400)
English author, poet, philosopher, bureaucrat, and diplomat.
To maken vertue of necessite.
Loke who that is most vertuous alway,
Prive and apert, and most entendeth ay
To do the gentil dedes that he can,
And take him for the gretest gentilman.
For thogh we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde,
Ay fleeth the tyme; it nyl no man abyde.
I hold a mouses wit not worth a leke,
That hath but on hole for to sterten to.
He helde about him alway, out of drede,
A world of folke.
Nowher so bisy a man as he ther nas,
And yet he semed bisier than he was.
Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.
That he is gentil that doth gentil dedis.
Men sholde wedden after hir estat,
For youthe and elde is often at debat.
Nature, the vicar of the Almightie Lord.
For May wol have no slogardie a-night.
The seson priketh every gentil herte,
And maketh him out of his slepe to sterte.
He coude songes make, and wel endite.
This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, —
That first he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
Of harmes two the lesse is for to cheese.
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 so rudely and so large;
Or elles he moste tellen his tale untrewe,
Or feinen thinges, or finden wordes newe.
Soun is noght but air ybroken,
And every speche that is spoken,
Loud or privee, foul or fair,
In his substaunce is but air;
For as flaumbe is but lighted smoke,
Right so soun is air ybroke.
I am right sorry for your heavinesse.
Eke wonder last but nine deies never in toun.
Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swych licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.
What is this world? what asketh men to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave
Allone, withouten any compaignye.