When Robin saw this train drawing near, with flash of jewels and silk
and jingle of silver bells on the trappings of the nags, he looked
sourly upon them. Quoth he to himself, "Yon Bishop is overgaudy for a
holy man. I do wonder whether his patron, who, methinks, was Saint
Thomas, was given to wearing golden chains about his neck, silk clothing
upon his body, and pointed shoes upon his feet; the money for all of
which, God wot, hath been wrung from the sweat of poor tenants. Bishop,
Bishop, thy pride may have a fall ere thou wottest of it."
So the holy men came to the church; the Bishop and the Prior jesting and
laughing between themselves about certain fair dames, their words more
befitting the lips of laymen, methinks, than holy clerks. Then they
dismounted, and the Bishop, looking around, presently caught sight of
Robin standing in the doorway. "Hilloa, good fellow," quoth he in a
jovial voice, "who art thou that struttest in such gay feathers?"
"A harper am I from the north country," quoth Robin, "and I can touch
the strings, I wot, as never another man in all merry England can do.
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