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 Though of dainties you have store,

To delight a choicer palate,

Yet your taste is pleased no more

Than is mine in one poor sallet.

You to please your senses feed

But I eat good blood to breed;

And am most delighted then

When I spend it like a man.

Though you lord it over me,

You in vain thereof have braved;

For those lusts my servants be

Whereunto your minds are slaved.

To yourselves you wise appear,

But, alas! deceived you are;

You do foolish me esteem,

And are that which I do seem.

When your faults I open lay,

You are moved, and mad with vexing;

But you ne'er could do or say

Aught to drive me to perplexing.

Therefore, my despisèd power

Greater is, by far, than your.

And, whate'er you think of me,

In your minds you poorer be.

You are pleasèd, more or less,

As men well or ill report you;

And show discontentedness,

When the times forbear to court you.

That in which my pleasures be,

No man can divide from me;

And my care it adds not to,

Whatso others say or do.

Be not proud, because you view

You by thousands are attended;

For, alas! it is not you,

But your fortune that's befriended.