Wroth in his ire, ne lefte he nought,
But thurgh the verger he hath sought.
4095
If he might finde hole or trace,
Wher-thurgh that men mot forth-by pace,
Or any gappe, he dide it close,
That no man mighte touche a rose
Of the roser al aboute;
4100
He shitteth every man withoute.