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With jollity my heart grows warm

When gold and silver thickly swarm

Within my coffers, which ne’er fail;

Count ye my schemes of no avail?

To heap is ever my intent,

And much my gain exceeds my rent.

And though I beaten were or slain,

Fear not I’d soon look in again.

You seem a saintly one!

Quite true,

For dowered am I with orders due:

Curate to all the world am I,

And all men hail me joyfully,

For all their souls have I in cure,

And none without my aid endure.

Full oft I preach and counsel give,

Yet by no handicraft I live;

But from the Pope a bull I’ve got,

For he, good man, suspects me not.

With restless diligence I press,

And seek out chances to confess

An emperor, baron, count, or king,

But nought I love the houseling

Of needy folk; not my affair

Are they but on occasion rare.

Nought care I for their mean distresses:

But emperors and great princesses,