Geoffrey Chaucer

Geoffrey Chaucer ( /ˈtʃɔːsər/; c. 1343 – 25 October 1400), known as the Father of English literature, is widely considered the greatest English poet of the Middle Ages and was the first poet to have been buried in Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. While he achieved fame during his lifetime as an author, philosopher, alchemist and astronomer, composing a scientific treatise on the astrolabe for his ten year-old son Lewis, Chaucer also maintained an active career in the civil service as a bureaucrat, courtier and diplomat. Among his many works, which include The Book of the Duchess, the House of Fame, the Legend of Good Women and Troilus and Criseyde, he is best known today for The Canterbury Tales. Chaucer is a crucial figure in developing the legitimacy of the vernacular, Middle English, at a time when the dominant literary languages in England were French and Latin.

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Famous quotes by geoffrey chaucer:

    And I was yong and ful of ragerye,
    Stibourne and strong and joly as a pie:
    How coude I daunce to an harpe smale,
    And singe, ywis, as any nightingale,
    Whan I hadde dronke a draughte of sweete win.
    Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400)

    Jesu Crist us sende
    Housbondes meke, yonge, and fresshe abedde,
    And grace t’overbyde hem that we wedde.
    And eek I preye Jesu shorte hir lyves
    That wol nat be governed by hir wyves;
    And olde and angry nigardes of dispence,
    God sende hem sone verray pestilence.
    Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400)

    ‘Woman is mannes joy and all his bliss.’
    For when I feel a-night your softe side,
    Albeit that I may not on you ride,
    For that our perch is made so narrowe, alas!
    I am so full of joy and of solace
    That I defye bothe sweven and dream.’
    Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400)

    Ye wise wives, that conne understonde,
    Thus sholde ye speke and bere him wrong on honde—
    For half so boldely can ther no man
    Swere and lie as a woman can.
    Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400)

    Your yen two wol slee me sodenly,
    I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
    So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
    Geoffrey Chaucer (1340?–1400)