Classic Poem

Adieu, adieu, my Friar, he cried;
My lusty Friar, adieu!
O, much I trust that they have lied,
Who tell these things of you:

That when you go forth to tell your beads,
That waggling paunch behind, —
You do but count the maidenheads
You've ta'en from maids too kind:

And therefore in a jealous fit,
Damn every mother's son,
Who fain would have a taste of it,
By humbly taking one .