To Life’s Pilgrim – Geoffrey Chaucer

FLY from the press, and dwell with soothfastness;

Suffice unto thy good, though it be small,
For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness ;

Preise hath envie, and weal is blent o’er all.

Savor no more than thee behoven shall,
Rede well thy self that other folk can’st rede,
And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.

That thee is sent receive in buxomness :
The wrestling of this world, asketh a fall.

Here is no home, here is but wilderness.
Forth, pilgrim, forth on, best out of thy stall;
Look up on high, and thank the God of all!

Weivith thy lust, and let thy ghost thee lead,

And Truth thee shalt deliver ’tis no drede.

Since I From Love – Geoffrey Chaucer

Since I from Love escaped am so fat,
I ne’er think to be in his prison ta’en;
Since I am free, I count him not a bean.

He may answer, and saye this and that;
I do no force, I speak right as I mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

Love hath my name struck out of his slat,
And he is struck out of my bookes clean,
For ever more; there is none other mean;
Since I from Love escaped am so fat.

A Cook – Geoffrey Chaucer

They had a cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring powder and 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.