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My practice, for in any case

With hosts of people find I grace.

My father, who as emperor

Rules all the world, is barrator

And prince of lies; the empress is

My mother; and through them, ywis,

Whate’er the Holy Ghost may do,

Our lineage all the earth doth strew.

And that is only as should be,

For ever at our will do we

So throughly cozen men that none

Perceive the way our tricks are done,

Or, e’en perceiving, dare not speak,

Lest we on them our vengeance wreak.

But those men God comes not anear

Who hold my brethren in more fear

Than Him; the Faith’s weak champions they

Who dare not such vile crimes naysay,

But, coward-like, the risks refuse,

When they foul treason might accuse.

God will not list their cry for grace,

But from them turn one day His face,

And lay on them sharp chastisement.

But nothing fear we to be shent,

Since we of men are so esteemed,

And of such worth and honour deemed,

That howsoe’er censorious

We be, no man dare censure us.

To whom but us should people pay

Honour, who never cease to pray

In sight of men conspicuously,

Whate’er our secret practice be?