Hazard was the game with which our rioters strove to ‘drive away the day.’ Mr. Wright, speaking of the use of dice, tells us, “In its simpler form, that of the game of hazard, in which the chance of each player rested on the mere throw of the dice, it was the common game of the low frequenters of the taverns--that class which lived upon the vices of society, and which was hardly looked upon as belonging to society itself.” Men staked all they possessed, to the very clothes on their backs, on one cast. 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 cheer if 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!