Gingeling in a whistling wind as clere,
And eke as loude, as doth the chapell belle,
Ther as this lord was keeper of the celle.
The reule of Seint Maure and of Seint Beneit,
Because that it was olde and somdele streit,
This ilkè monk lette oldè thingès pace,[62]
And held after the newè world the space.
He yaf not of the text a pulled hen,[63]
That saith, that hunters ben not holy men;
Ne that a monk, whan he is reckèles,[64]