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 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 yt 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 moote 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 moote I dye! @3Lenvoy de Chaucer@1 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE'D BE NOTHING BUT HIS VIOLIN by MARY KYLE DALLAS ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 4. TO THE HON. CHARLES TOWNSHEND, IN THE COUNTRY by MARK AKENSIDE THE STRAYED REVELLER by MATTHEW ARNOLD HARVEST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A SISTER OF SORROW: 2. WEEPING CROSS by GORDON BOTTOMLEY ACROSS THE STREET by IOANNA CARLSEN BALD-CAP REVISITED by JOHN WHITE CHADWICK |