“My Liege,” said the Friar, “I humbly crave your pardon; and you would readily grant my excuse, did you but know how the sin of laziness has beset me. Saint Dunstan⁠—may he be gracious to us!⁠—stands quiet in his niche, though I should forget my orisons in killing a fat buck⁠—I stay out of my cell sometimes a night, doing I wot not what⁠—Saint Dunstan never complains⁠—a quiet master he is, and a peaceful, as ever was made of wood.⁠—But to be a yeoman in attendance on my sovereign the King⁠—the honour is great, doubtless⁠—yet, if I were but to step aside to comfort a widow in one corner, or to kill a deer in another, it would be, ‘where is the dog Priest?’ says one. ‘Who has seen the accursed Tuck?’ says another. ‘The unfrocked villain destroys more venison than half the country besides,’ says one keeper; ‘And is hunting after every shy doe in the country!’ quoth a second.⁠—In fine, good my Liege, I pray you to leave me as you found me; or, if in aught you desire to extend your benevolence to me, that I may be considered as the poor Clerk of Saint Dunstan’s cell in Copmanhurst , to whom any small donation will be most thankfully acceptable.”