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,