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In hope the love and confidence

To gain of wealthy men. Pretence

We make and thereby parchments get

Wherein our virtues forth are set

In suchwise that the world will bless

And praise our names for holiness.

The direst poverty we feign,

But howsoever we complain,

We yet are those who, having nought,

Have more, forsooth, than poor men ought.

Then am I great at agencies,

Old feuds arrange, and marriages,

Executorships I take on me,

And further deeds of warrantry,

Inquests as pursuivant I make,

Whereat some honest men might quake.

’Tis pleasure, wherewith nought compares

To mix in other men’s affairs.

And lastly should you be concerned

In things to which my hand I’ve turned,

Speak forth—no sooner said than done,

With your commands my will shall run.

But who my chastisement should try,

Would find he’d done but foolishly;

For little I love the man who’d show

To me the path I’m bound to go,

And though to others I may give

Correction, none will I receive.

For forests have I little taste,

Or hermit’s huts, or deserts waste,