3080'Begone,' quoth he, 'entreats are out of season.
Worshipful Hob, I'll have another nap.
'Tis not mine hour to rise until I hear
The clapper sound a surge in mine ear.'
When our young monk had many minutes spent,
And could not Foppo from his pillow rear,
About that time light's charioteer had sent
Day's trusty harbinger his orb to clear.
He searched the walls, and trafficked with the lock;
But all in vain, he must implore the frock.