Geoffrey Chaucer

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.

He was a verray parfit gentil knyght.

Love is blynd alday, and may nat see.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.

For if a fool have power, and be riche, He shal be holden wise, and that is whyche.

Wommen desiren to have sovereyntee As wel over hir housbond as over hir love, And for to been in maistrie him above.

Pitee renneth soone in gentil herte.

For though we slepe, or wake, or rome, or ryde, Ay fleeth the tyme, it nyl no man abyde.

O, blisful ordre of wedlok, precious, Thou art so murye, and eek so vertuous.

The firste vertu, sone, if thou wolt lerne, Is to restreine and kepe wel thy tonge.

For in this world, certeyn, no wight there is That he ne dooth or seith somtyme amis.

Ful ofte in litel herde is greet wisdom.

Therfore I seye, al that we seye or doon, Is but a shadwe of thyng that is to coom.

For olde stories tellen us that wimmen kan, Whan they han lost hir housbondes, make hem newe.

He was a gentil maister, and a trewe.

And though that I, unworthy sone of Eve, Am sinful, yet I pray to God to give Me grace to telle you the trouthe of this.

O, yonge, fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up groweth with your age, Repeyreth hom fro worldly vanytee.

For thogh the feend to every man be deere, Yet is he bounden to his owene sphere.

What sholde I make a lenger tale of this?