The Compleinte of Chaucer to his empty purs

To you, my purs, and to non other wight  

- Compleyne I, for ye be my lady dere!  

I am so sory now that ye be Hght;  

For certes, but ye make me hevy chere, 

Me were as leef be leyd up-on my bere,  

For which un-to you 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 bhsful soun may here,  

Or see your colour lyk the sonne bright  

That of yelownesse hadde nevere pere.  

Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere,  

Queue of comfort and of good companye:  

Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye!   

Now purs, that be to me my lyves light,  

And saveour, as doun in this world 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:   

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,  

Have minde up-on my supplicacioun!