But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire,

So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,

And is brought home at evensong prick’d through with a spear;

I confess him in haste⁠—for his lady desires

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar’s.

Your monarch?⁠—Pshaw! many a prince has been known

To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,

But which of us e’er felt the idle desire

To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!

The Friar has walk’d out, and where’er he has gone,

The land and its fatness is mark’d for his own;