The Complaint of Chaucer to His Empty Purse, by Geoffrey Chaucer. Read for LibraVox.org by Corey Samuel. January 2007. To you, my purse, and to none other whites, complain I, for ye be my lady, dear.
I am so sorry, now that ye be light, for certs but ye make me heavy, cheer, me whereas leave be laid upon my beer, for which unto your mercy thus I cry, beeth heavy again, or else must I die. Now voucher safe this day, or hit be night, the die of you the blissful sound may hear, or see your colour like the sun bright, that of yellowness had never appear. Ye be my life, ye be my heart's steer, queen of comfort and of good company, beeth heavy again, or else must I die. Now purse, that be to me my life's light, and saviour as down in this world here, out of this town help me through your might, sin that ye will not be my treasure, for I am shavest nigh as any for air, but yet I pray unto your courtesy, beeth heavy again, or else must I die.
L'Envoy de Chaucer. O conqueror of rude Salbian, which that by line and free election, been very king this song to you I send, and ye that mow in all our harm am end, have mind upon my supplication. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.