‘The office of Abbot,’ he writes, ’is a solemn, great office, being no less than that of spiritual father to a family of men consecrate (as it is written, Abba, father); yet not on that account should vainglory puff the cheeks of a pious man.  God knows that I am no boaster.  He, therefore, will not misjudge me, as certain others have done, when I record in this place (for positive cause and reason good) the exorbitant honours I received on the day of my lord Saint John Baptist in this year of thankful redemption eleven hundred and eighty-nine.  Forsooth, I myself, this Milo of Saint Mary-of-the-Pine, was chosen to preach in the church of the nuns of Fontevrault before a congregation thus composed:—­Two kings (one crowned), one legate a latere, a reigning duke (him of Burgundy, I mean), five cinctured counts, twice three bishops, abbots without number; Jehane Countess of Anjou and wife to the King of England, the Countess of Roussillon, the two Countesses of Angoulesme (the old and the young), Lady Elis of Montfort (reputed the most witty lady in Languedoc), thirteen pronounced poets, and the hairdresser of the King of France—­to name no more.  That sermon of mine—­I shame not to report it-was found worthy the inscription in the Register of Fontevrault; and in the initial letter thereof, garlanded in gold work very beautiful to be seen, is the likeness of myself vested, with a mitre on my head, all done by that ingenious craftsman and faithful Christian man, Aristarchus of Byzantium, suspirante deo.  There the curious may consult it, as indeed they do.  I hope I know the demands of history upon proportion better than to write it all here.  Briefly then, a second Peter, I stood up before that crowned assembly and was bold.

’What, I said, is Pharaoh but a noise?  How else is Father Abraham but dusty in his cave?  Duke Lot hath a monument less durable than his wicked wife’s; and as for Noe, that great admiral, the waters of oblivion have him whom the waters of God might not drown.  Conquered lies unconquered Agamemnon; how else lies Julius Caesar?  Nabuchodonosor, eater of grass, what is he?  Kings pass, and their royal seat gathereth a little dust.  Anon with a besom of feathers cometh.  Time the chamberlain, and scareth to his hiding-place the lizard on the wall.  Think soberly, O ye kings! how your crowns are but yellow metal, and your purple robes the food of moths, and the sceptres of your power no better than hedge-twigs for the driving of rats.  Round about your crystal orbs scurry the fleas at play in the night-time; in a little while the joints of your legs will grapple the degrees of your thrones with no more zest than an old bargeman’s his greasy poop.

’At this King Philip said Tush, and fidgeted in his chair.  He might have put me out of countenance, but that I saw King Richard clasp his knee and smile into the rafters, and knew by the peaking of his beard that I had pleased him.