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Still on the frighted ear of terror hangs;

The winds are up; the lofty elmtree swangs; swings

Again the lightning, and the thunder pours,

And the full clouds are burst at once in stony showers.

Spurring his palfrey o’er the watery plain,

The Abbot of Saint Godwin’s convent came;

His chapournette was drenched with the rain, small round hat

His painted girdle met with mickle shame;

He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same; told his beads

The storm increases, and he drew aside, backwards,

With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. i.e., cursed

His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,

With a gold button fastened near his chin,

His autremete was edged with golden twine, robe

And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;

Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.

The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,

For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.

“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,

“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,

Till the sun shineth high above our head,