3160Fetch me some groans from the ascending thief;
And from the Inquisition fetch me grief.
Without demurs, Albino left the wicket,
Fearing the monks should bribe the faithless lock,
And steered his course unto a well-grown thicket,
Whose lofty hill was armed with many a rock.
He envies sculls that wait on spit and oven,
And vows ne'er more to see that hated coven.
Have you beheld the stately-pacing stag,
Flying the echoes of some deep-mouthed hounds?