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Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in switch licour Of which vertu engendr… - Geoffrey Chaucer
" "Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in switch 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 half 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,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;
And specially from every shires ende
Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke
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About Geoffrey Chaucer
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1343 – October 25, 1400) was an English author, poet, philosopher, bureaucrat (courtier), and diplomat. Chaucer is most famous as the author of The Canterbury Tales. He is sometimes credited with being the first author to demonstrate the artistic legitimacy of the vernacular English language, rather than French or Latin.
Biography information from Wikiquote
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Alternative Names:
Chaucer
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Additional quotes by Geoffrey Chaucer
One night the citizens of Rome revolted Against his tyrannies and mad ambition And, when he heard them mutiny, he bolted Alone and sought his friends for coalition. The more he knocked and begged them for admission The more they shut their doors and said him nay. And then he saw that of his own perdition He was sole author and he fled away. The people yelled for him and rumbled round So that their shouts were dinning in his ear: ‘Where’s Nero? Where’s the tyrant? Treacherous hound!
And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom, on the holyday; Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe, Farwel my book and my devocioun!
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