Which did unto Saint Godwin’s convent lead,

A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide,

Poor in his view, ungentle in his weed, clothing

Long brimful of the miseries of need.

Where from the hailstorm could the beggar fly?

He had no houses there, nor any convent nigh.

Look in his gloomèd face, his sprite there scan;

How woe-begone, how withered, dwindled, dead!

Haste to thy church-glebe-house, accursed man! grave

Haste to thy shroud, thy only sleeping bed.