Classic Poem

Against the wittie gifte of shotinge in a bowe
Fonde and leude woordes thou leudlie doest out throwe,
Which, if thou wilte heare of me a woorde or twayne
Quicklie thou mayst learne howe fondlie thou doest blame,
Firste he that with his harneis him selfe doth wal about,
That scarce is lefte one hole through which he may pepe out,
Such bondmen to their harneis to fight are nothing mete
But sonest of al other are troden under fete.
Yf he be stronge, his felowes faynt, in whome he putteth his trust,
So loded with his harneis must nedes lie in the dust,
Nor yet from death he can not starte, if ones his weapon breke,
Howe stoute, howe strong, howe great, howe longe, so ever be suche a freke.
But who so ever can handle a bowe sturdie stiffe and stronge
Wherwith lyke hayle manie shaftes he shootes into the thickest thronge:
This profite he takes, that standing a far his enemie he maye spill
Whan he and his full safe shall stande out of all daunger and ill.
And this in war is wisedome moste, which workes our enemies woo.
Whan we shal be far from all feare and jeoperdie of our foo.