A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Ancient Letters

When Matthew Paris wrought to write
The Lives of all the early abbots,
He rove by rush and tallow light.
By his scriptorium mailed feet
And tumbrels knocking in the street
Worked further wrongs; the herded night
Advanced on sandal and sabot.
That men should sing in praise of kings
To set them on some middle course
Or shrug in shambles were not things
Unknown to him: to flay the poor,
To bludgeon children at their door;
Where hapless human cattle cringed
He watched them redden all the Bourse.
In nomine pecuniae,
He wrote (hard by the coursing Thames
Where bugles saxed the ruffled drums,
A gang of jerkined muling grunts
Sang filthy songs and pissed from punts);
They warned him: ‘Tis the King who comes-
He nodded . . . and set down their names.
He tallied every crimson name,
Carefully, correct and clear;
The butcher’s muck of all their shame
He measured out by rood and rod:
A lie is an offence to God.
Today his book will read the same
Without a lowing note of fear.

Editor’s note: Image from the Wikipedia Commons.