THE COMPLAINT TO HIS EMPTY PURSE

By
Geoffrey Chaucer

To you, my purse, and to none other wight

Complain I, for ye be my lady dear !

I am so sorrow, now that ye be light;

For certes,  but ye make me heavy cheer,

Me were as leif be laid upon my bier;

For which unto your mercy thus I cry:

Be heavy again, or elles might I die !
 

Now voucheth safe this day, or it be night,

That I of you the blissful sound may hear,

Or see your colour like the sun bright

That of yellowness had never a peer.

Ye be my life,  ye be my hertes stere,

Queen of comfort an of good company:

Be heavy again, or elles might I die !
 

Now purse, that  be to me my life's light,

And saviour, as down in this world here,

Out of this toune help me through your might,

Since that ye wole not be my treasurer;

For I am shaved as nigh as any frere.

But yet I pray unto your courtesy

Be heavy again, or elles might I die !
 

O Conqueror of Brute's Albion

Which that by line and free election

Be very king,  this song to you I send;

And ye,  that mighten all our harm amend,

Have mind upon my supplication !
 

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