And sole possessor of a countenance
Such as is worn ’mongst ordinary folk?
My sides do ache with mirth when I bethink
Me of these simple churls, and of their kin
By Adam, in high places set, how each,
No matter what his state, doth ne’er perceive
Himself glass’d in his fellow’s eye, but paints
Instead a portrait in fair colours mix’d,
Calls it his likeness, and would have the world,
That knows him what he is, declare its truth