I cannot, I;—no, no;—it will not be;
This is the cause that I could never yet
Hang on their sleeves, that weigh, as thou maist see,
A chippe of chaunce more than a pound of wit;
This makes me at home to hunt and hawke,
And in foul weather at my book to sit;
In frost and snowe, then with my bowe stalke;
No man doth marke whereso I ryde or goe;
In lustie leas at libertie I walke.
Towards the conclusion, he says he does not spend his time among those who have their wits taken away with Flanders cheer and "beastliness:"—