Poems by Geoffrey Chaucer

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The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse

To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight

Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere!

I am so sory, now that ye been lyght;

For certes, but ye make me hevy chere,

Me were as leef be layd upon my bere;

For which unto your mercy thus I crye:

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!

Geoffrey Chaucer

Merciles Beaute

A TRIPLE ROUNDEL

Captivity

I. 1.

Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beaute of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit throwout my herte kene.

Geoffrey Chaucer

A Cook

They had a cook with them who stood alone

For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone,

Sharp flavouring powder and a spice for savour.

He could distinguish London ale by flavour,

And he could roast and boil and seethe and fry,

Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie...

As for blancmange, he made it with the best.

Geoffrey Chaucer

L'Envoy of Chaucer to Bukton

My Master Bukton, when of Christ our King

Was asked, What is truth or soothfastness?

He not a word answer'd to that asking,

As who saith, no man is all true, I guess;

And therefore, though I highte to express

The sorrow and woe that is in marriage,

I dare not write of it no wickedness,

Lest I myself fall eft in such dotage.

Geoffrey Chaucer

Chaucer's Words to His Scrivener

Adam Scrivener, if ever it thee befall

Boece or Troilus for to write anew,

Under thy long locks thou may'st have the scall

But after my making thou write more true!

So oft a day I must thy work renew,

It to correct, and eke to rub and scrape;

And all is through thy negligence and rape.

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Parlement of Fowls

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonne soft{.e},

That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e},

And driven away the long{.e} nyght{.e}s blak{.e}!

Saynt Valentyn, that art ful hy on-lofte,

Thus syngen smal{.e} foul{.e}s for thy sak{.e}:

Now welcome, somer, with thy sonn{.e} soft{.e},

That hast this wintr{.e}s wedr{.e}s overshak{.e}.

Wel han they caus{.e} for to gladen oft{.e},

Geoffrey Chaucer

La Priere de Nostre Dame

Almighty and all-merciable Queen,

To whom all this world fleeth for succour,

To have release of sin, of sorrow, of teen!

Glorious Virgin! of all flowers flow'r,

To thee I flee, confounded in errour!

Help and relieve, almighty debonair,

Have mercy of my perilous languour!

Geoffrey Chaucer

Good Counsel of Chaucer

Flee from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;

Suffice thee thy good, though it be small;

For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,

Press hath envy, and weal is blent o'er all,

Savour no more than thee behove shall;

Read well thyself, that other folk canst read;

And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

Paine thee not each crooked to redress,

Geoffrey Chaucer

Lak of Stedfastnesse

Somtyme the world was so stedfast and stable

That mannes word was obligacioun,

And now it is so fals and deceivable

That word and deed, as in conclusioun,

Ben nothing lyk, for turned up-so-doun

Is al this world for mede and wilfulnesse,

That al is lost for lak of stedfastnesse.

What maketh this world to be so variable

Geoffrey Chaucer

A Ballad Sent to King Richard

Sometime this world was so steadfast and stable,

That man's word was held obligation;

And now it is so false and deceivable,

That word and work, as in conclusion,

Be nothing one; for turned up so down

Is all this world, through meed and willfulness,

That all is lost for lack of steadfastness.

What makes this world to be so variable,

Geoffrey Chaucer

Roundel

Now welcome Summer with thy sunne soft,

That hast this winter`s weathers overshake,

And driven away the longe nighties black.

Saint Valentine, that art full high aloft,

Thus singen smalle fowles for thy sake:

Now welcome Summer with tye sunne soft,

That hast this winter`s weathers overshake.

Well have they cause for to gladden oft,

Geoffrey Chaucer

Gentilesse

The firste stok, fader of gentilesse —

What man that desireth gentil for to be

Must folowe his trace, and alle his wittes dresse

Vertu to love and vyces for to flee.

For unto vertu longeth dignitee

And noght the revers, saufly dar I deme,

Al were he mytre, croune, or diademe.

This firste stok was ful of rightwisnesse,

Geoffrey Chaucer