"A thousand tymes have I herd men telle, That ther is joye in heven, and peyne in helle; And I acorde wel that hit is so; But natheles, yit wot I wel also, That ther nis noon dwelling in this contree, That either hath in heven or helle y-be, Ne may of hit non other weyes witen, But as he hath herd seyd, or founde hit writen; For by assay ther may no man hit preve. But god forbede but men shulde leve Wel more thing then men han seen with yë! Men shal nat wenen every-thing a lyë But-if him-self hit seeth, or elles dooth; For, god wot, thing is never the lasse sooth, Thogh every wight ne may hit nat y-see. Bernard the monk ne saugh nat al, parde!"
Quote Details
Added by wikiquote-import-bot
Unverified quote
0 likes
Poets from EnglandPhilosophers from EnglandTranslators from EnglandDiplomats of the United KingdomCivil servants
Original Language: English
Available Languages (1)
Sources
Prologue, l. 1
https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Geoffrey_Chaucer
Revision History
No revisions have been submitted for this quote.
Categories
Geoffrey Chaucer
englischer Schriftsteller und Dichter
44 quotes on TrueQuotesView all quotes by Geoffrey Chaucer →
Related Quotes
"Many a smale maketh a grate."
"So was hir jolly whistel wel y-wette."
"Hard is his herte that loveth nought In May."
"Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde, That at a revel whan that I see you daunce, It is an oynement unto my wounde…"
"Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse, Suffyce unto thy good, though hit be smal; For hord hath hate, and…"
"The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne, Th' assay so hard, so sharp the conquering, The dredful joy, that alwey…"
"Your yën two wol slee me sodenly, I may the beautè of hem not sustene, So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene."
"Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal! Know thy contree, look up, thank God of al; Hold the hye wey, a…"
"Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat, I never thenk to ben in his prison lene; Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene."
"Madame, ye ben of al beautè shryne As fer as cercled is the mappemounde; For as the cristal glorious ye shyne, And ly…"