The cruel executioner with his knife
Twice tried in vain her slender neck to sever,
But all for nought, she could not lose her life.
Still crying on the Son of God for ever,
Three days she lived in torment and in pain,
But taught men still, their souls for Christ to gain.

Now at the last has God's bright angel come,
And borne her soul to heavenly bliss above.
Unto His Church she gave her earthly home
With all her wealth, in token of her love.
As she a saint is, so God grant that we
By her ensample pure and good may be. Amen.

When the Nun had ended her life of St. Cecilia, and we had ridden on
a few miles and were just at Boughton-under-Blee, a man began to
overtake us. He was dressed in black with a white surplice
underneath. His horse was grey and so necked with foam that he seemed
to have galloped several miles. His yeoman followed, whose horse was
in little better condition. Across his saddle he had a pack thrown,
but it seemed to contain little. For a long time I could not make out
who the stranger was, but at last I decided from the style of his
dress that he must be a canon. His hat hung down his back on a cord,
for he had been riding fast, and over his head as a protection from
the sun was a dock-leaf. In spite of this the sweat poured off his
forehead in huge drops. As he came near, "Good day to you all, sirs,"
he cried. "I have hurried so because I wished to join you." His
yeoman added, "I saw you start this morning from your inn and told my
master, and he is eager to join you, for he loves merry-making." The
Host was willing enough that he should join us. "For doubtless your