Classic Poem

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay,
My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray,
My palmer's hat, my scallop's-shell,
My cross, my cord, and all, farewell.
For having now my journey done
(Just at the setting of the sun),
Here I have found a chamber fit
(God and good friends be thanked for it),
Where if I can a lodger be
A little while from tramplers free,
At my up-rising next, I shall,
If not requite, yet thank ye all.
Meanwhile, the Holy Rood hence fright
The fouler fiend and evil sprite
From scaring you or yours this night.