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But think ye not I would defame

Religion, or its votaries blame,

For nought it matters what they wear

By way of habit, I will spare

All faithful ones, but fain confess

I do not love them ne’ertheless.

I speak of worthless monks and nuns,

Felonious and malicious ones,

Who care alone for holy dress,

And clothe their hearts with wickedness.

Good cloisterers are with pity fraught

And kindliness, and harbour nought

Of evil, far from them is pride,

And love they humbly to abide

In peace. If I with these should stay,

My cue it were false cards to play.

Their habits well could I assume,

But ’neath them should but fret and fume,

And sooner hang would than forego

My ends, whate’er my outward show.

I live with rascals puffed with pride,

From out whose hearts, ’twould seem, hath died

All virtue; schemers, whose desire

Before all else is to acquire

Honour and wrath, and therefore set

Themselves to plot how they may get

Great folks’ acquaintance; men who make

Themselves bare paupers for the sake

Of Christ, and yet good meat and drink

Will pasture on, and love the chink