Act I, scene 1, lines 141-60 



Poor old pilgrim Misery, 
Beneath the silent moon he sate, 
A-listening to the screech owl's cry, 
And the cold wind's goblin prate; 
Beside him lay his staff of yew 
With withered willow twined, 
His scant grey hair all wet with dew, 
His cheeks with grief ybrined; 
 And his cry it was ever, alack! 
 Alack, and woe is me. 

Anon a wanton imp astray 
His piteous moaning hears, 
And from his bosom steals away 
His rosary of tears: 
With his plunder fled that urchin elf, 
And hid it in your eyes, 
Then tell me back the stolen pelf, 
Give up the lawless prize; 
 Or your cry shall be ever, alack! 
 Alack, and woe is me.