By the Lord Honourable Cleon Rust

Just yestereve around Vespers I was surveying mine estate in my gilded carriage, when I chanced to observe one of my vassals plowing a furrow, or performing some other such plebeian task. If I were not mistaken, this vassal did look askance upon me in my silken robes and luxurious équipage.

It struck me that perchance this was a look of loathing, so I had the dastardly varlet flogged just in case.

But this turned my thoughts to further pondering. I soon realized that many of you filthy stinking peasants don’t like me. Why? thought I. What could I, thy magnanimous lord and master, ever have done to inspire such enmity?

Have I not whipt thee enough? Have I not pleasured myself enough in the company of thy wyves and daughters? Is my castle not domineering enough to remind thee of my supremacy over all things in this fiefdom, including thy lyfe?

Seriously, what must a liegelord do to get you sniveling, lowborne imbeciles to adore him?

Mayhaps the tymes are a-changing. You trivial petulant swine are no longer content with being the inconsequential, pathetic underlings you were born to be. This really says something about our society, but I still can’t understand why you don’t admire me with every bone in your sallow, wretched bodies.

Is there something off-putting about my being wealthier, healthier, and better than you in every conceivable way? Is there something offensive about the way in which I treat you as lower than the dirt on the soles of my silver-encrusted leather boots?

I just don’t get it.

But no matter. ‘Tis not worth the sweat on my noble brow to fret o’er such petty things as the whims of trifling thralls such as yourselves.

And anyways, I have a beheading to get to.