Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:

Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knight

Going to fight.

A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:

Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—

The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;

And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.

Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—

Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:

Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,