The king, who long had taxed himself to bear The monk's bold sermon to his sore displeasure, And vainly bade him to his cell repair Anew, without that damsel, at his leisure, Yet seeing he would still his patience dare, Nor peace with him would keep, nor any measure, Upon that preacher's chin his right-hand laid, And whatsoe'er he grasped, as rudely flayed.
