I've been reading Chaucer, don't know why I've never read him in the original Middle English before. It's a struggle to get through the language sometimes but it certainly adds a new depth to the stories. I really like the Dream Vision tales, especially the Book of the Duchess:

One of my favorite sections is when the dreaming man (Chaucer?) first comes upon the Black Knight mourning in the forest during the hunt. One of the things I really was struck by throughout the entire story was the repetition of "heart" (hert, herte, hart), at times meaning "heart" and at other times meaning "hart" and once meaning "hurt".

And I herde goynge bothe up and doun Men, hors, houndes, and other thyng;

And al men speken of huntyng,

How they wolde slee the hert with strengthe,

And how the hert had upon lengthe

So moche embosed -- y not now what. (lines 348-353)

445	I was war of a man in blak,
	That sat and had yturned his bak
	To an ook, an huge tree.
	"Lord," thoght I, "who may that be?
	What ayleth hym to sitten her?"
450	Anoon-ryght I wente ner;
	Than found I sitte even upryght
	A wonder wel-farynge knyght --
	By the maner me thoghte so --
	Of good mochel, and ryght yong therto,
455	Of the age of foure and twenty yer,
	Upon hys berd but lytel her,
	And he was clothed al in blak.
	I stalked even unto hys bak,
	And there I stood as stille as ought,
460	That, soth to saye, he saw me nought;
	For-why he heng hys hed adoun,
	And with a dedly sorwful soun
	He made of rym ten vers or twelve
	Of a compleynte to hymselve --
465	The moste pitee, the moste rowthe,
	That ever I herde; for, by my trowthe,
11	-ch 467 Hit was gret wonder that Nature
	Myght suffre any creature
	To have such sorwe and be not ded.
470	Ful pitous pale and nothyng red,
	He sayd a lay, a maner song,
	Withoute noote, withoute song;
	And was thys, for ful wel I kan
	Reherse hyt; ryght thus hyt began:
475	"I have of sorwe so gret won
	That joye gete I never non,
	Now that I see my lady bryght,
	Which I have loved with al my myght,
	Is fro me ded and ys agoon.
	"Allas, deth, what ayleth the,
	That thou noldest have taken me,
	Whan thou toke my lady swete,
	That was so fair, so fresh, so fre,
485	So good that men may wel se
	Of al goodnesse she had no mete!"
	Whan he had mad thus his complaynte,
	Hys sorwful hert gan faste faynte
	And his spirites wexen dede;
490	The blood was fled for pure drede
	Doun to hys herte, to make hym warm --
	For wel hyt feled the herte had harm --