His painted girdle met with mickle shame;
He aynewarde told his bederoll at the same; told his beads
The storm increases, and he drew aside, backwards,
With the poor alms-craver near to the holm to bide. i.e., cursed
His cope was all of Lincoln cloth so fine,
With a gold button fastened near his chin,
His autremete was edged with golden twine, robe
And his shoe’s peak a noble’s might have been;
Full well it shewèd he thought cost no sin.
The trammels of his palfrey pleased his sight,