"Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer at PoetryFoundation.org"

“Of alle maner of minstrales,And gestiours, that tellen talesBothe of weping and of game,Of al that longeth unto Fame.”

“That wel by reson men hit calle may The 'dayesye' or elles the 'ye of day,' The emperice and flour of floures alle.”

“         Of all the floures in the mede, Than love I most these floures whyte and rede, Swiche that men callen daysies in our toun.”

“And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence, And in myn herte have hem in reverence So hertely, that ther is game noon That fro my bokes maketh me to goon, But hit be seldom, on the holyday; Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May Is comen, and that I here the foules singe, And that the floures ginnen for to springe, Farwel my book and my devocioun!”

“And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye.”

“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!”