But certainly I madë folk such cheer, That in his owen grease I made him fry For anger, and for very jealousý. By God, in earth I was his purgatory, For which I hope his soul may be in glory. For, God it wot, he sat full oft and sung, When that his shoe full bitterly him wrung. 1926 There was no wight, save God and he, that wist In many wise how sore I did him twist. He died when I came from Jerusalem, And lies in grave under the roodë beam: 1927 Although his tomb is not so curious As was the sepulchre of Darius, Which that Apelles wrought so subtlely. It is but waste to bury them preciously. Let him fare well, God give his soulë rest, He is now in his grave and in his chest.