3190He fears the monkish rabble, and he shrouds
Himself in caves, encurtained round with clouds.
In his dark house he heard a feeble voice,
Breathed from the corals of some weak'ned maid.
At first concealment was his better choice,
Till pity set an edge upon his blade.
Then guided by the cry, he saw a roister
Did in his arms perforce a nymph encloister.
Yet, seeing home-spun russet, stopped his pace;
Saying, 'By this what honour shall I gain?'