CXXI

    'Tis better to be vile¹ than vile esteem'd, When not to be receives reproach of being； And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem'd Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing： For why should others' false adulterate eyes Give salutation to my sportive blood？ Or on my frailties² why are frailer³ spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good？ No, I am that I am, and they that level At my abuses reckon up their own： I may be straight though they themselves be bevel； By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown； Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad and in their badness reign⁴.