Villon

    Was dank with dungeon wetness； my spent frame

    O‘erlaid with marish agues： everywhere

    Tortured by leaping pangs of frost and flame

    So hideous was I that even Lazarus there

    In noisome rags arrayed and leprous shame

    Beside me set had seemed full sweet and fair

    And looked on me with loathing.

    But one came

    Who laid a cloak on me and brought me in

    Tenderly to an hostel quiet and clean；

    Used me with healing hands for all my needs.

    The mortal stain of my reputed sin

    My state despised and my defilèd weeds

    He hath put by as though they had not been.