Then who is a philosopher so rightly as I?
For in loving of wisdom proof doth this try,
That frustra sapit, qui non sapit sibi.
I am wise for myself: then tell me of troth,
Is not that great wisdom, as the world go’th?
Some philosophers in the street go ragged and torn,
And feed on vile roots, whom boys laugh to scorn:
But I in fine silks haunt Dionysius’ palace,
Wherein with dainty fare myself I do solace.
I can talk of philosophy as well as the best,