their nets, that we might catch the young foxes, who cease not to
devour the growing vines. Of a truth, noble fathers, worthy of
perpetual benediction, ye would have been deservedly happy, if ye
had been allowed to beget offspring like yourselves, and to leave
no degenerate or doubtful progeny for the benefit of future
times.

But, painful to relate, now slothful Thersites handles the arms
of Achilles and the choice trappings of war-horses are spread
upon lazy asses, winking owls lord it in the eagle's nest, and
the cowardly kite sits upon the perch of the hawk.

Liber Bacchus is ever loved,
And is into their bellies shoved,
By day and by night;
Liber Codex is neglected,
And with scornful hand rejected
Far out of their sight.

And as if the simple monastic folk of modern times were deceived
by a confusion of names, while Liber Pater is preferred to Liber
Patrum, the study of the monks nowadays is in the emptying of
cups and not the emending of books; to which they do not hesitate
to add the wanton music of Timotheus, jealous of chastity, and
thus the song of the merry-maker and not the chant of the mourner
is become the office of the monks. Flocks and fleeces, crops and
granaries, leeks and potherbs, drink and goblets, are nowadays
the reading and study of the monks, except a few elect ones, in
whom lingers not the image but some slight vestige of the fathers
that preceded them. And again, no materials at all are furnished