I play the masquer to the world, I grant,
I flash the spangles of my art before
Its staring eyes; my witless jests I pour
Into its ears with many a strut and vaunt.
I would not have thee, for that reason, scant,
In thy esteem, my virtue's little store,
Nor deem me inly false, because I wore
A cap and bells, and uttered empty cant.
Alas! the burden of the face to me!
Alas! the aching heart, that rose and fell
Beneath my gauds, and shook my jester's bell!
The lie I planned, for thy security,
Lured men's mistrust from what 'twere mad to tell;
Falsehood to them was very truth to thee.