'Tis not book study that
Has made him grow so fat,
'Tis earth's lower pleasures, he fears, does entrance.
Now a distant rise
Presents to the eyes
Of the Abbot the hut, and with joy on he flies;
It is rugged indeed,
But he takes little heed,
Though the walls are of mud, and each flower is a weed.
Not a sound then was heard,