"The Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse" by Geoffrey Chaucer

THE COMPLAINT OF CHAUCER TO HIS PURSE


To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight

Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere.

I am so sory, now that ye been lyght;

For certes but yf ye make me hevy chere,

Me were as leef be layd upon my bere;

For which unto your mercy thus I crye,

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye.

Now voucheth sauf this day or hyt be nyght

That I of yow the blisful soun may here

Or see your colour lyk the sonne bryght

That of yelownesse hadde never pere.

Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere.

Quene of comfort and of good companye,

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moot I dye.

Now purse that ben to me my lyves lyght

And saveour as doun in this world here,

Out of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,

Syn that ye wole nat ben my tresorere;

For I am shave as nye as any frere.

But yet I pray unto your curtesye,

Beth hevy agen, or elles moot I hye.

Lenvoy de Chaucer

O conquerour of Brutes Albyon,

Which that by lyne and free eleccion

Been verray kyng, this song to yow I sende,

And ye, that mowen alle oure harmes amende,

Have mynde upon my supplicacion.

Source of the text - Geoffrey Chaucer, The Riverside Chaucer, Third Edition, edited by Larry D. Benson.  New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1987, page 656.

TJB: Cash rules everything around him. With puns on hevy and lyght, the poet sings for his supper like someone in love & envoys it to the new king.