For there was he not like a cloisterer, With threadbare cope, as is a poor scholer, But he was like a master or a pope. Of double worsted was his semicope, 91 That rounded was as a bell out of press. Somewhat he lisped for his wantonness, To make his English sweet upon his tongue; And in his harping, when that he had sung, His eyen twinkled in his head aright, As do the starrës in a frosty night. This worthy limitour was call’d Hubérd.