Arthur C. Clarke's "Third Law": "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"Thise olde gentil Britouns in hir dayes Of diverse aventures maden layes, Rymeyed in hir firste Briton tonge, Whiche layes with hir instrumentz they songe Or elles redden hem for hir plesaunce; And oon of hem have I in remembraunce, Which I shal seyn with good wyl as I kan." --Chaucer, Prologue to "The Franklin's Tale"

"Eterne God, that thurgh thy purveiaunce Ledest the world by certein governaunce, In ydel, as men seyn, ye no thyng make. But, Lord, thise grisly feendly rokkes blake, That semen rather a foul confusion Of werk than any fair creacion Of swich a parfit wys God and a stable, Why han ye wroght this werk unresonable? For by this werk, south, north, ne west, ne eest, Ther nys yfostred man, ne bryd, ne beest; It dooth no good, to my wit, but anoyeth. Se ye nat, Lord, how mankynde it destroyeth?

An hundred thousand bodyes of mankynde Han rokkes slayn, al be they nat in mynde, Which mankynde is so fair part of thy werk That thou it madest lyk to thyn owene merk. Thanne semed it ye hadde a greet chiertee Toward mankynde; but how thanne may it bee That ye swiche meenes make it to destroyen, Whiche meenes do no good, but evere anoyen? I woot wel clerkes wol seyn as hem leste, By argumentz, that al is for the beste, Though I ne kan the causes nat yknowe. But thilke God that made wynd to blowe As kepe my lord! This my conclusion. To clerkes lete I al disputison. But wolde God that alle thise rokkes blake Were sonken into helle for his sake! Thise rokkes sleen myn herte for the feere."

"Madame," quod he, "this were an inpossible!"

THE WIFE OF BATH'S TALE In th' olde dayes of the kyng arthour, Of which that britons speken greet honour, Al was this land fulfild of fayerye. The elf-queene, with hir joly compaignye, Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede. This was the olde opinion, as I rede; I speke of manye hundred yeres ago. But now kan no man se none elves mo, For now the grete charitee and prayers Of lymytours and othere hooly freres, That serchen every lond and every streem, As thikke as motes in the sonne-beem, Blessynge halles, chambres, kichenes, boures, Citees, burghes, castels, hye toures, Thropes, bernes, shipnes, dayeryes -- This maketh that ther ben no fayeryes. For ther as wont to walken was an elf, Ther walketh now the lymytour hymself In undermeles and in morwenynges, And seyth his matyns and his hooly thynges As he gooth in his lymytacioun. Wommen may go now saufly up and doun. In every bussh or under every tree Ther is noon oother incubus but he....