He carried me along the castle then,
And shew’d his written Book hanging on an iron pin.
His writing pen did seem to me to be
Of harden’d metal, like steel or accumie,
The volume of it did seem so large to me
As the Book of Martyrs and Turks Historie.
Then in the church he let me see
A stone where Mr. Michael Scot did lie.
I ask’d at him how that could appear:
Mr. Michael had been dead above five hundred year?