That sent him--I can't tell your Holiness where!
Had he as many necks as hairs,
He had broken them all down those perilous stairs!"

"Rise up, rise up, Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
Rise up, rise up, I say to thee;
A soldier, I trow, Of the Cross art thou;
Rise up, rise up, from thy bended knee!
Ill it seems that soldier true
Of Holy Church should vainly sue:--
--Foot-pages they are by no means rare,
A thriftless crew, I ween, be they;
Well mote we spare A Page--or a pair,
For the matter of that--Sir Ingoldsby Bray,
But stout and true Soldiers like you,
Grow scarcer and scarcer every day!--
Be prayers for the dead Duly read,
Let a mass be sung, and a _pater_ be said:
So may your qualms of conscience cease,
And the little Foot-page shall rest in peace!"

"Now pardon, Holy Father, I crave.
O Holy Father, pardon and grace!
Dame Alice, my wife, The bane of my life,
I have left, I fear me, in evil case!
A scroll of shame in my rage I tore,
Which that caitiff Page to a paramour bore;
'Twere bootless to tell how I storm'd and swore;
Alack! and alack! too surely I knew
The turn of each P, and the tail of each Q,