the guilty think all talk is of themselves. - Geoffrey Chaucer

For out of olde feldes, as men seith, Cometh al this newe corn fro yeer to yere; And out of olde bokes, in good feith, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

Why,” said this Summoner, “ride you then in sundry shapes, and not always in the same one?” “Because we will assume whatever form,” said the Fiend, “is most suitable to catch our prey.” “And what causes you to undertake all this labor?” asked the Summoner.

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,