My porter never lets a beggar in;
None touch my ring who not in honour live.”
And now the sun with the black clouds did strive,
And shot upon the ground his glaring ray;
The abbot spurred his steed, and eftsoons rode away.
Once more the sky was black, the thunder rolled,
Fast running o’er the plain a priest was seen;
Not dight full proud, nor buttoned up in gold.
His cope and jape were grey, and eke were clean; short surplice
A Limitor he was of order seen; Begging Friar