An old old man, with beard as white as snow,
That on a staffe his feeble steps did frame,
And guide his wearie gate both to and fro:
For his eye sight him failed long ygo,
And on his arme a bounch of keyes he bore,
The which unused rust[°] did overgrow:
Those were the keyes of every inner dore,
But he could not them use, but kept them still in store.
XXXI