This flour of wifly patience.
This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
First he wrought, and afterwards he taught.
But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre.
A whetstone is no carving instrument, And yet it maketh sharp the carving tool; And if you see my efforts wrongly spent, Eschew that course and learn out of my school; For thus the wise may profit by the fool, And edge his wit, and grow more keen and wary, For wisdom shines opposed to its contrary.
In April the sweet showers fall And pierce the drought of March to the root, and all The veins are bathed in liquor of such power As brings about the engendering of the flower.
Certain, when I was born, so long ago, Death drew the tap of life and let it flow; And ever since the tap has done its task, And now there’s little but an empty cask.
For out of old fields, as men saith, Cometh all this new corn from year to year; And out of old books, in good faith, Cometh all this new science that men learn.
The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.
Thou shalt make castels thanne in Spayne And dreme of joye, all but in vayne.
Of harmes two the lesse is for to cheese.
Go, little booke! go, my little tragedie!
Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken.
The proverbe saith that many a smale maketh a grate.
And brought of mighty ale a large quart.
Mordre wol out, that se we day by day.
It is nought good a sleping hound to wake.
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.
And so it is in politics, dear brother, Each for himself alone, there is no other.
I am right sorry for your heavinesse.