Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf
Came I to crouch, as I conceive;
Dame Nature doubtless has designed
A man the monarch of his mind.
Now taste and try this temper, sirs;
Mood it and brood it in your breast;
Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,
That man does right to mar his rest,
Let me be left, and debonair;