Tis the season of student loans so on this note, here is poem of dear Chaucer to his purse:

To yow, my purse, and to noon other wight
Complayne I, for ye be my lady dere.
I am so sory, now that ye been lyght;
For certes but yf ye make me hevy chere,
Me were as leef be layd upon my bere;
For which unto your mercy thus I crye,
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles mot I dye.

(To you, my purse, and to no other creature I lament, for you are my lady dear. I am so sorry now that you are light! Surely, unless you make me heavier cheer, I may as well be laid upon my bier. Therefore unto your mercy thus I cry--be heavy again, or else surely I must die.)

Now voucheth sauf this day or hyt be nyght
That I of yow the blisful soun may here
Or see your colour lyk the sonne bryght
That of yelownesse hadde never pere.
Ye be my lyf, ye be myn hertes stere.
Quene of comfort and of good companye,
Beth hevy ageyn, or elles moot I dye.

(Promise this day, before it may ever be night, that I may hear the blessed clanking of you, or see your color like the bright sunshine, that never yet has had a peer in terms of yellowness. You are my life, only you, queen of content and of good company, steers my heart, be heavy again, or else surely I must die.)

Now purse that ben to me my lyves lyght
And saveour as doun in this world here,
Out of this toune helpe me thurgh your myght,
Syn that ye wole nat ben my tresorere;
For I am shave as nye as any frere.
But yet I pray unto your curtesye,
Beth hevy agen, or elles moot I dye.

(Now, purse, who are to me my life's one light, my life's one savior, down in this world here, help me out of this city through your might, since you refuse to be my treasurer. For I am clipped like priest or an austere monk. But yet I pray you of your courtesy, be heavy again, or else surely I must die.)

Lenvoy de Chaucer
O conquerour of Brutes Albyoun
Which that by line and free eleccioun
Been verray king, this song to yow I sende,
And ye that mowen alle oure harmes amende
Have minde upon my supplicacioun

(O conqueror of the isle of Brut's Albion, who, through your lineage, are King of it, and our free choice, this song to you I send; set your mind, you who can all our woes amend, upon this little flower from Helicon)

Notes 
Image, Gorleston Psalter, BL Add MS 49622, f. 142r

f. 142r:  detail of a marginal scene of a monk offering money to a woman - See more at: http://britishlibrary.typepad.co.uk/digitisedmanuscripts/2012/10/more-gorleston-psalter-virility-profane-images-in-a-sacred-space.html#sthash.3fKe6Hsm.dpuf

Original text:
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/mect/mect81.htm

Modern text:
http://ummutility.umm.maine.edu/necastro/chaucer/translation/short/short.html

Some background on the poem:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2009/feb/02/complaint-chaucer-purse-poetry