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And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.

Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.

No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,

All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.” crucifix

“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;

This is no season alms and prayers to give.

My porter never lets a beggar in;

None touch my ring who not in honour live.”

And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,

And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;

The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.

Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,

Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;

Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.

His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean; short surplice

A Limitor he was of order seen; Begging Friar

And from the pathway-side then turnèd he,

Where the poor beggar lay beneath the holmen tree.

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

“For sweet Saint Mary and your order’s sake.”

The Limitor then loosened his pouch-thread,

And did thereout a groat of silver take: