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.