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 certés ye now make me heavy cheer; Me were as lief be laid upon a bier, For which unto your mercy thus I cry, Be heavy again, or ellés must I die. Now vouchsafen this day, ere it be night, That I of you the blissful sound may hear, Or see your colour like the sunné bright, That of yellowness ne had never peer; Ye be my life, ye be my heartés steer; Queen of comfórt and of good company, Be heavy again, or ellés must I die. Now, purse, that art to me my livés light, And saviour, as down in this world here, Out of this towné help me by your might, Sithen that you will not be my tresór, For I am shave as nigh as any frere, But I prayen unto your courtesy, Be heavy again, or ellés must I die. _BALLAD OF WOMEN’S DOUBLENESS_ This world is full of variance In everything; who taketh heed, That faith and trust, and all Constance, Exiléd be, this is no drede, And save only in womanhead, I can ysee no sikerness; But, for all that, yet as I read, Beware alway of doubleness. Also that the fresh summer flowers, The white and red, the blue and green, Be suddenly with winter showers, Made faint and fade, withouten ween; That trust is none, as ye may seen, In no thing, nor no steadfastness, Except in women, thus I mean; Yet aye beware of doubleness. The crooked moon (this is no tale), Some while isheen and bright of hue, And after that full dark and pale, And every moneth changeth new, That who the very sothé knew All thing is built on brittleness, Save that women always be true; Yet aye beware of doubleness. The lusty freshé summer’s day, And Phœbus with his beamés clear, Towardés night they draw away, And no longer list t’ appear, That in this present life now here Nothing abideth in his fairness, Save women aye be found entere, And devoid of all doubleness. The sea eke with his sterné wawés Each day yfloweth new again, And by the concourse of his lawés The ebbe floweth in certain; After great drought there cometh rain; That farewell here all stableness, Save that women be whole and plein; Yet aye beware of doubleness. Fortunés wheel go’th round about A thousand timés day and night, Whose course standeth ever in doubt For to transmue she is so light, For which adverteth in your sight Th’ untrust of worldly fickleness, Save women, which of kindly right Ne hath no touch of doubleness.