El hombre favorecido por la Fortuna se convierte en un imbécil integral. - Geoffrey Chaucer

"Full is my heart of revelry and grace." But suddenly he fell in grievous case; For ever the latter end of joy is woe. God knows that worldly joys do swiftly go; And if a rhetorician could but write, He in some chronicle might well indite And mark it down as sovereign in degree.

Ye sey right sooth; this Monk he clappeth lowde.
He spak how Fortune covered with a clowde
I noot nevere what; and als of a tragedie
Right now ye herde, and pardee, no remedie
It is for to biwaille ne compleyne
That that is doon, and als it is a peyne,
As ye han seyd, to heere of hevynesse.
Sire Monk, namoore of this, so God yow blesse!
Youre tale anoyeth al this compaignye.
Swich talkyng is nat worth a boterflye,

Lo, which a greet thing is affeccioun!
Men may die of imaginacioun,
So depe may impressioun be take.