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Answer their scoffs with courtesy,

leave them in their fat to fry.

Believe me, never autumn cheese

Was made more speedily than these

Good folk will bite their nails. Right soon

They’ll come to seek some gift or boon,

And merrily your plot will go;

You’ll gather, though you cease to sow.

Rude churlish hearts are often filled

With arrogance, and though one spilled

Buckets of tears thereon, the more

Their gentle kindness you implore.

The harder will they grow; but leave

Them all alone, nor seem to grieve

One jot, and suddenly their pride

And insolence is cast aside,

For nought doth more such hearts impress,

Than proud and studied scornfulness.

The mariner who steers his bark

Through unknown seas, when night falls dark

Regardeth not one only star

To guide his course, nor would he far

Entrust his ship with one poor sail,

But try what others might avail

’Mid storm and tempest. Even so

He that with Love would hunting go

Must follow, not a single track,

But now pursue, and now fall back,

If Love’s full joyance he would taste.

I warrant me I need not waste