Slept upon the chilly stone floor,
Or (if fate were feeling kinder)
On a mighty feather mattress,
Ate his dinner in the kitchen,
Drinking down great draughts of cider,
Talking in his very vile French
To Madame, his kindly hostess,
Wrinkled as a russet apple.
By the fire he wrote his letters,
Wrote and told his green-eyed Phyllis