Merciles Beautè

    I. CAPTIVITY

YOUR yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

And but your word wol helen hastily

My hetres wounde, whyl that hit is grene,

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene.

Upon my trouthe I seyy yow feithfully,

That ye ben of my lyf deeth the quene;

Foe with my deeth the trouthe shal be sene.

Your yën two wol slee me sodenly,

I may the beautè of hem not sustene,

So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.

    II. REJECTION

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;

For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

Giltles my deeth thus han ye me purchaced;

I sey yow sooth, me nedeth not to feyne;

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne.

Allas! that nature hath in yow compassed

So greet beautè; that no man may atteyne

To mercy, though he sterves for the peyne.

So hath your beautè fro your herte chaced

Pitee, that me ne availeth not to pleyne;

For Daunger halt your mercy in his cheyne.

    III. ESCAPE

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never think to ben in his prison lene;

Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

He may answere, and seye this or that;

I do no fors, I speke right as I mene.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never think to ben in his prison lene.

Love hath my name y-strike out of his sclat,

And he is strike out of my bokes clene

For ever-mo; ther s non other mene.

Sin I fro Love escaped am so fat,

I never think to ben in his prison lene;

Sin I am free, I counte him not a bene.

Geoffrey Chaucer

The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse

[editor's note: The king addressed in the 'Lenvoy' is probably Henry IV]

TO you, my purse, and to none other wight

Complain I, for you be my lady dear!

I am so sorry, now that you be light;

For certain, but you make me heavy cheer,

Me were as lief be laid upon my bier;

For which unto your mercy thus I cry:

Be heavy again, or else might I die!

Now voucheth safe this day, or be it night,

That I of you the blissful sound may hear,

Or see your colour like the sun bright,

That of yellowness had never peer.

You be my life, you be mine heart's steer*,     *helmsman

Queen of comfort and of good company:

Be heavy again, or else might I die!

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

And saviour, as done in this world here,

Out of this town help me through your might,

Since that you will not be my treasurer;

For I am shaved as nigh as any friar.

But yet I pray unto your courtesy:

Be heavy again, or else might I die!

     Lenvoy de Chaucer

O conqueror of Brute's Albion*,     *England

Which that by line and free election

Be very king, this song to you I send;

And you, that may all our harms amend,

Have mind upon my supplication!

Geoffrey Chaucer