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| TO you, my purse, and to non other wight | |
| Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere! | |
| I am so sory, now that ye be light; | |
| For certes, but ye make me hevy chere, | |
| Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere; | 5 |
| For whiche un-to your mercy thus I crye: | |
| Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! | |
| |
| Now voucheth sauf this day, or hit be night, | |
| That I of you the blisful soun may here, | |
| Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright, | 10 |
| 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 mot I dye! | |
| |
| Now purs, that be to me my lyves light, | 15 |
| And saveour, as doun in this worlde here, | |
| Out of this toune help me through your might, | |
| Sin that ye wole nat been my tresorere; | |
| For I am shave as nye as any frere. | |
| But yit I pray un-to your curtesye: | 20 |
| Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye! | |
| |
Lenvoy de Chaucer.
O conquerour of Brutes Albioun! | |
| Which that by lyne and free eleccioun | |
| Ben verray king, this song to you I sende; | |
| And ye, that mowen al our harm amende, | 25 |
| Have minde up-on my supplicacioun! | |
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