Chaucer tells us contemptuously how the King of Parthia sent a pair of golden dice to King Demetrius in scorn, knowing he was a player, to express that he held his glory and renown at no value, being liable to disappear at any moment.
The three rioters were probably young men who had ruined themselves by folly and licence, and whose besetting sin, surviving all it throve on, urged them to any and every crime for the sake of renewed gratification. Their end is beyond measure frightful. For why?—The fiend found him in such living that he had leave to bring him to grief, says the severe old moralist.
The extreme beauty of this poem, even in a technical sense alone, is such that I lament the necessity of abridging it.
MINOR POEMS.
Complaint of Chaucer to his Purse.
To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight,no one else
Complayn I, for ye be my lady dere;
I am so sorry now that ye been lyght,[195]
For certes, but-yf ye make me heavy cheerif
Me were as leef be layde upon my bere,I were
For whiche unto your mercy thus I crye—
Beeth hevy ageyne, or elles mote I dye!be thou
Now voucheth sauf this day, or hyt be nyghte,vouchsafe before
That I of yow the blissful soune may here,sound
Or se your colour lyke the sunne bryghte,
That of yelownesse hadde never pere!rival
Ye be my lyfe! ye be myn hertys stere!rudder
Quene of comfort and goode companye,
Beth hevy ayeyne, or elles moote I die!
Now, purse, that ben to me my lyves lyghte,life’s
And saveour as doun in this worlde here,saviour
Oute of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat bene my tresorere,[196]since, treasurer
For I am shave[197] as nye as is a frere.nigh
But I pray unto youre courtesye,
Bethe hevy ayeyn, or elles moote I dye!
To you, my purse, and to no other wight,
Complain I, for you are my lady dear;
I am so sorry now that you are light,
For truly if you make me heavy cheer
I would as lief be laid upon my bier.
Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry—
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
I prithee grant this day, ere it be night,
That I once more your merry voice may hear,
Or see your colour like the sunshine bright,
Whereof the yellowness had never peer!
You are my life, and you my heart shall steer;
Queen of all comfort and good company,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Now, purse, who are to me my life, my light,
And chief deliverer in this world here,
Out of this city help me, by your might,
If you no more will be my treasure dear,
For I am shaved as close as any frere.
But I beseech you of your courtesy,
Be heavy again, or else I needs must die!
Two Rondeaux.