ema. I do pronounce all within this
city ex--"

"Abate thee, friar, abate!" roared Giles, "cease thy rumbling, thou
empty wine-butt. An thou must deal in curses, leave them to one more
apt and better schooled--to Giles, in faith, who shall forthwith curse
thee sweet and trippingly as thus--now mark me, monk! Aroint, aroint
thee to Acheron dark and dismal, there may the foul fiend seize and
plague thee with seven and seventy plaguey sorrows! May Saint Anthony's
fire frizzle and fry thee--woe, woe betide thee everlastingly--(bate
thy babble, Prior, I am not ended yet!) In life may thou be accursed
from heel to head, within thee and without--(save thy wind, Prior, no
man doth hear or heed thee!) Be thou accursed in father and in mother,
in sister and in brother, in oxen and in asses--especially in asses! Be
thou accursed in sleeping and in waking, eating and drinking, standing,
sitting, lying--O be thou accursed completely and consumedly! Here now,
methinks, Sir Monkish Tunbelly, is cursing as it should be cursed. But
now--(hush thy vain babbling, heed and mark me well!)--now will I to
dictums contumacious, from cursing thee I will to song of thee, of thy
plump and pertinacious person--a song wherein shall pleasant mention be
o' thy round and goodly paunch, a song that shall be sung, mayhap, when
thee and it are dusty dust, O shaveling--to wit:

"O frater fat and flatulent, full foolish, fatuous Friar
A prime plump priest in passion seen, such pleasure doth inspire,
That sober souls, 'spite sorrows sad, shall sudden, shout and sing
Because thy belly big belittleth baleful ban ye bring.
Wherefore with wondrous wit withal, with waggish wanton wiles,
I joyful chant to glorify the just and gentle Giles."

And now behold! fear and dread were forgotten quite, and wheresoever
Beltane looked were men who bent and contorted themselves in their
merriment, and who held their laughter yet in check to catch the
archer's final words.

"Thus, thou poor and pitiful Prior, for thy rude speech and curses
canonical we do requite thee with song sweet-sung and of notable rhyme
and metre. Curse, and Belsaye shall out-curse thee; laugh, and Belsaye
laugheth at thee--"

"Sacrilege!" gasped the Prior, "O 'tis base sacrilege! 'Tis a vile,
unhallowed city and shall go up in flame--"

"And thou," cried Giles, "thou art a fiery churchman and shall be
cooled. Ho, Rogerkin--loose off!"

Came the thudding crash of a powerful man