To you, my purse, and to none other wight, / Complain I, for ye be my lady dere; / I am sorry now that ye be light, / For, certes, ye now make me heavy chere; / Me were as lefe be laid upon a bere, / For which unto your mercy thus I crie, / Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. / Now vouchsafe this day or it be night, / That I of you the blissful sowne may here, / Or see your color like the sunne bright, / That of yellowness had never pere; / Ye are my life, ye be my hertes stere, / Queen of comfort and of good companie, / Be heavy againe, or els mote I die. / Now purse, thou art to me my lives light, / And saviour, as downe in this world here, / Out of this towne helpe me by your might, / Sith that you will not be my treasure, / For I am slave as nere as any frere, / But I pray unto your curtesie, / Be heavy againe, or els mote I die.