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, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn, Is that a matter to make me fret? That a calamity hard to be borne? Well, he may live to hate me yet. Fool that I am to be vext with his pride! I past him, I was crossing his lands; He stood on the path a little aside; His face, as I grant, in spite of spite, Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white, And six feet two, as I think, he stands; But his essences turn'd the live air sick, And barbarous opulence jewel-thick Sunn'd itself on his breast and his hands.