Saturday, July 06, 2013

Be Heavy Again, or Else Must I Die

The Complaint of Chaucer to His Purse
by Geoffrey Chaucer


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 moot I dye.

Now vouceth 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 comfot and of good companye,
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moot I dye.

Now purse that ben to my 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 ageyn, or elles moot I dye.

L'Envoy de Chaucer

O conqueror 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.

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