And that, with this intent, your friend,
I write what else might seem too rude.'
He thinks it right, too, to make a sort of apology for the severity of his attack on monks.
'I strung my bow: I bent it well;
And though no saint, the truth to tell
I let my random arrows fly,
In lowly town and cloister high.
For what cared I where'er they lit?
The folk that Christ called hypocrite,
Who here and there are always found,