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178

For now no more doth he come here,

And yet Fair-Welcome, racked with fear

Must lie in prison, who, natheless,

Had in him nought but willingness

To please you daily, nor e’er sought

To injure you by word or thought,

But dareth now no more amuse

Himself as gentle gallants use.

Of solace is he quite bereft

Since that, through fear of you, hath left

The youth whom joyance hither drew.

What was it then that prompted you

To wrong him thus except your lewd

Despite which many a lie hath brewed?

Accursèd be your venomous tongue,

Which to no other chime is rung

But scolding, wrath, and spiteful rage,

And no desire doth e’er engage

But noble men to vilify

By secret stab or barefaced lie,

Affirming rumours scarce begun

As crimes accomplished, past, and done.

But I maintain, the tongue aloof

Should hold from all but clearest proof,

And count it worst of crimes to say

That which may rob or filch away

A man’s good name; all this right well

You know, O shameless child of hell.