To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And depart from the light without leaving a friend.
Bear softly his bones over the stones;
Though a pauper, he’s one whom his Maker yet owns.
Complaint to My Empty Purse
By Geoffrey Chaucer
(See page [423])
To you, my purse, and to none other wight
Complain I, for ye be my lady dear!