XVII. · Section 2

XVII.

Awhile the hero now reposes, In knightly hall an honoured guest; His brow by beauty crowned with roses, And filled his belly with the best.

But soon the life of idlesse palls, For daring deeds his heart is "game;" "Farewell," he cries, "ye lordly walls!" And starts anew in quest of fame.

Over hill and dale he wends; Fate no fresh adventure sends To reward him for his pains, Till a mountain's foot he gains.

Underneath that hill prodigious Dwelt an anchorite religious: He batter'd the door with divers knocks; He didn't make a little din; And the hermit old, with his hoary locks, Came forth at the summons to let him in "Reverend sire," cried Jack, "I say, Can you lodge a chap who has lost his way? The grey-beard eremite answered "Yea-- That is if thou cans't take 'pot luck.'"

"I rather think I can, old buck!" The hero answer made, and went To supper with no small content.

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