And as for me, though than I konne 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 yt be seldome on the holy day. Save, certeynly, when that the monthe of May Is comen, and that I here the foules synge, And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, Farwel my boke, and my devocion.
If that thise men that lovers hem pretende,To women weren feythfull good and trewe,And dreden hem to deceyven or offende,Women, to love hem, wolde nat eschewe;But every day hath man an herte newe:Yt, upon oon, abide can no while.What fore ys it, swich a wight to be-gile?thomas occleve
O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, In which that love up-groweth with your age, Repeyreth hoom fro worldly vanitee, And of your herte up-casteth the visage To thilke God that after his image Yow made, and thynketh al nis but a faire This world, that passeth sone as floures faire.Geoffrey Chaucer
He hath the sor which no man heleth, The which is cleped lack of herte.
I holde a mouses herte nat worth a leek. That hath but oon hole for to sterte to.
For which he wex a litel red for shame, Whan he the peple upon him herde cryen, That to beholde it was a noble game, How sobreliche he caste doun his yen. Criseyda gan al his chere aspyen, And let so softe it in her herte sinke That to herself she seyde, “Who yaf me drinke?”Geoffrey Chaucer