For the horse-milliner his head with roses dight.
“An alms, sir priest!” the drooping pilgrim said,
“Oh! let me wait within your convent-door,
Till the sun shineth high above our head,
And the loud tempest of the air is o’er.
Helpless and old am I, alas! and poor.
No house, no friend, nor money in my pouch,
All that I call my own is this my silver crouche.” crucifix
“Varlet!” replied the Abbot, “cease your din;
This is no season alms and prayers to give.