Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge[32] sound
    Cheves[33] slowlie on, and then embollen[34] clangs,
    Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d,
    Still on the gallard[35] eare of terroure hanges;
    The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; 40
    Again the levynne and the thunder poures,
  And the full cloudes are braste[36] attenes in stonen showers.

    Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine. 
    The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came;
    His chapournette[37] was drented with the reine, 45
    And his pencte[38] gyrdle met with mickle shame;
    He aynewarde tolde his bederoll[39] at the same;
    The storme encreasen, and he drew aside,
  With the mist[40] almes craver neere to the holme to bide.

    His cope[41] was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, 50
    With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne;
    His autremete[42] was edged with golden twynne,
    And his shoone pyke a loverds[43] mighte have binne;
    Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne;
    The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte; 55
  For the horse-millanare[44] his head with roses dighte.

    An almes, sir prieste! the droppynge pilgrim saide,
    O! let me waite within your covente dore,
    Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade,
    And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer; 60
    Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor;
    No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche;
  All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche

    Varlet, replyd the Abbatte, cease your dinne;
    This is no season almes and prayers to give; 65
    Mie porter never lets a faitour[45] in;
    None touch mie rynge who not in honour live. 
    And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve,
    And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie,
  The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. 70

    Once moe the skie was blacke, the thounder rolde;
    Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen;
    Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde;
    His cope and jape[46] were graie, and eke were clene;
    A Limitoure he was of order seene; 75
    And from the pathwaie side then turned hee,
  Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree.

    An almes, sir priest! the droppynge pilgrim sayde,
    For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake. 
    The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade, 80
    And did thereoute a groate of silver take;
    The mister pilgrim dyd for halline[47] shake. 
    Here take this silver, it maie eathe[48] thie care;
  We are Goddes stewards all, nete[49] of oure owne we bare.