Feast on fat capons; quaff the livelong night;
While, could you rummage his own private cell,
No noble’s larder e’er was stuffed so well.
Let me have books those moments to beguile,
When the rich prelate, in his haughty style,
Roars to his porter, “Here, let who will come,
Be sure you tell them I am not at home.”
So monks, carousing at their favourite meals,
Silence the interrupting sound of bells.
“Sir,” should I say (for Sir’s the proper word