CXXI’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,When not to be receives reproach of being;And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’dNot by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:For why should others’ false adulterate eyesGive salutation to my sportive blood?Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,Which in their wills count bad what I think good?No, I am that I am, and they that levelAt 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 reign.
’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,When not to be receives reproach of being;And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’dNot by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:For why should others’ false adulterate eyesGive salutation to my sportive blood?Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,Which in their wills count bad what I think good?No, I am that I am, and they that levelAt 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 reign.