Geoffrey Chaucer

[caption id="attachment_1474" align="aligncenter" width="468"] Geoffrey Chaucer (1343 - 1400)[/caption]

Alas, why is it that most folk complain
So much of God's providence, or Fortune,
That often grants them, in so many ways,
Far better favours than they could devise?
Here's someone wishes for enourmous wealth,
And this leads to his murder, or ill-health;
Here's someone longing to get out of prison,
Whose servants murder him when he gets home.
Infinite harms from this would seem to flow;
We don't know what we pray for here below.
But, like a man drunk as a wheelbarrow,
Who knows he's got a home where he can go,
But doesn't know which is the right road thither-
For when you're drunk, then every road's a slither.
Yes, in this world,that's how it goes with us;
All frantically seeking happiness,
But oftener than not in the wrong place.
There's no doubt we can all of us say so.
We don't know what we pray for here below.

(The Canterbury Tales, The Knight's tale, 1387

Translation: David Wright, 1985)