Part 115

To you, my purse, and to none other wight, Complain I, for ye be my lady dear! I am sorry now that ye be so light, For certes ye now 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 elles must I die!

Now vouchesafe this day, ere it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sunne bright, That of yellowness hadde peer. Ye be my life! Ye be my hearte’s steer!* *rudder Queen of comfort and of good company! Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

Now, purse! that art to me my life’s light And savour, as down in this worlde here, Out of this towne help me through your might, Since that you will not be my treasurere; For I am shave as nigh as any frere. <1> But now I pray unto your courtesy, Be heavy again, or elles must I die!

Chaucer’s Envoy to the King.

O conqueror of Brute’s Albion, <2> Which by lineage and free election Be very king, this song to you I send; And ye which may all mine harm amend, Have mind upon my supplication!

Notes to The Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse

1. “I am shave as nigh as any frere” i.e. “I am as bare of coin as a friar’s tonsure of hair.”

2. Brute, or Brutus, was the legendary first king of Britain.

GOOD COUNSEL OF CHAUCER. <1>

FLEE from the press, and dwell with soothfastness; Suffice thee thy good, though it be small; For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness,* *instability Press hath envy, and *weal is blent* o’er all, *prosperity is blinded* Savour* no more than thee behove shall; *have a taste for Read* well thyself, that other folk canst read; *counsel And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.* *doubt

Paine thee not each crooked to redress, In trust of her that turneth as a ball; <2> Great rest standeth in little business: Beware also to spurn against a nail; <3> Strive not as doth a crocke* with a wall; *earthen pot Deeme* thyself that deemest others’ deed, *judge And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread.

What thee is sent, receive in buxomness;* *submission The wrestling of this world asketh a fall; Here is no home, here is but wilderness. Forth, pilgrim! Forthe beast, out of thy stall! Look up on high, and thank thy God of all! *Weive thy lust,* and let thy ghost* thee lead, *forsake thy And truth thee shall deliver, it is no dread. inclinations* *spirit

Notes to Good Counsel of Chaucer

1. This poem is said to have been composed by Chaucer “upon his deathbed, lying in anguish.”

2. Her that turneth as a ball: Fortune.

3. To spurn against a nail; “against the pricks.”

PROVERBS OF CHAUCER. <1>

WHAT should these clothes thus manifold, Lo! this hot summer’s day? After great heate cometh cold; No man cast his pilche* away. *pelisse, furred cloak Of all this world the large compass Will not in mine arms twain; Who so muche will embrace, Little thereof he shall distrain.* *grasp

The world so wide, the air so remuable,* *unstable The silly man so little of stature; The green of ground and clothing so mutable, The fire so hot and subtile of nature; The water *never in one* — what creature *never the same* That made is of these foure <2> thus flitting, May steadfast be, as here, in his living?

The more I go, the farther I am behind; The farther behind, the nearer my war’s end; The more I seek, the worse can I find; The lighter leave, the lother for to wend; <3> The better I live, the more out of mind; Is this fortune, *n’ot I,* or infortune;* *I know not* *misfortune Though I go loose, tied am I with a loigne.* *line, tether

Notes to Proverbs of Chaucer

1. (Transcriber’s Note: Modern scholars believe that Chaucer’s may have been the author of the first stanza of this poem, but was not the author of the second and third).

2. These foure: that is, the four elements, of which man was believed to be composed.

3. The lighter leave, the lother for to wend: The more easy (through age) for me to depart, the less willing I am to go.

VIRELAY. <1>

ALONE walking In thought plaining, And sore sighing; All desolate, Me rememb’ring Of my living; My death wishing Both early and late.

Infortunate Is so my fate, That, wot ye what? Out of measure My life I hate; Thus desperate, In such poor estate, Do I endure.

Of other cure Am I not sure; Thus to endure Is hard, certain; Such is my ure,* *destiny <2> I you ensure; What creature May have more pain?