Geoffrey Chaucer

As for to speke of innocence, I woot no man that may be exempt from it.

The Firste Moevere of the cause above, Whan he first made the faire cheyne of love, Greet was theffect, and heigh was his entente.

Thus may ye see that every creature, Evere in his kynde, desireth to confourme Him to the kynde of his creatoure.

But al be that I kan nat telle aright The murthe of mariage, but I kan telle the wo.

A man shal fynde, that in his lyf, The gretteste joye is to have a wyf.

For al my wit is wasted on this art.

Out of the olde feldes, as men seyth, Cometh al this newe corn from yeer to yeer; And out of olde bokes, in good feyth, Cometh al this newe science that men lere.

For if a man be gracious and kynde, He is a verray gentilman, and no other.

The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th'assay so hard, so sharp the conquerynge.

For though the grettest clerkes han it sworen, That ther is no felicitee in mariage, Ne no felicitee but in his lyf, That lyveth out of swich servage.

This world is but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.

For in this world, certein, no wight there is, That he ne hath som favour in his sight.

And as for me, I love a lusty lyf, And in my bed I love a lusty wyf.

A man may do no synne but if he wole.

For goddes sake, taak al in pacience Our lordes hestes, and his ordinaunce.

The smalest worm that crepeth by the weye, Is in his kynde as parfit as the grete.

Ther is no difference, by my fey, Bitwixe a wys man and a fool, but this: The fool is glad, and the wys man is sorweful.

For though the lyon be a beest, He hath a herte of gold, and that is al.

Wommen are so variable, and so unstable, That ther is no trust in hem, by my fey.

For if a man be ryche, he hath no drede, To have a wyf that is bothe fair and yong.