To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight <br />Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere! <br />I am so sory, now that ye been lyght; <br />For certes, but ye make me hevy chere, <br />Me were as leef be layd upon my bere; <br />For which unto your mercy thus I crye: <br />Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! <br /> <br />Now voucheth sauf this day, or yt be nyght, <br />That I of yow the blisful soun may here, <br />Or see your colour lyk the sonne bryght, <br />That of yelownesse hadde never pere. <br />Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere, <br />Quene of comfort and of good companye: <br />Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moote I dye! <br /> <br />Now purse, that ben to me my lyves lyght <br />And saveour, as doun in this world here, <br />Out of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght, <br />Syn that ye wole nat ben my tresorere; <br />For I am shave as nye as any frere. <br />But yet I pray unto your curtesye: <br />Beth hevy agen, or elles moote I dye! <br /> <br />Lenvoy de Chaucer <br />O conquerour of Brutes Albyon, <br />Which that by lyne and free eleccion <br />Been verray kyng, this song to yow I sende; <br />And ye, that mowen alle oure harmes amende, <br />Have mynde upon my supplicacion!<br /><br />Geoffrey Chaucer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-complaint-of-chaucer-to-his-purse/
