  What time I write my roundelays, I am as proud as princes gone, Who built their empires in old days, As Tamburlaine or Solomon; And wisely though companions then Say well it is and well I sing, Assured above the praise of men I am a solitary king. But when I leave that straiter mood, That lonely hour, and put aside The continence of solitude, I fall in treason to my pride, And if a witling’s word be spent Upon my song in jealousy, In anger and in argument I am as derelict as he.
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