Classic Poem

You worldings, chiefe to you this tale I tell,
God graunt my words be to your woundes a leache.
The fruites of fraude, untold, you knowe too well,
Yea, better then my naked Muse can teach;
But to this end this dririe plaintes I preach,
That henceforth you to getting have such eye,
As you may live as though you dayly dye.

And least the lewde should wrest my worde amis,
I do exempt the good of every trade,
The which, I trust, will not repine at this;
To shew thy praise this checking verse was made:
The clergie first, at whome a glaunce I had,
Of them there be great store of preachers good,
To shewe the truth that will not spare their blood.

There are in court that live in worthy fame,
And well deserve renoune and credite both:
Some officers will take no bribes for shame,
Some laweyers are to sowe dissention loth;
And citizens, with whome I seemde so wroth,
I needes must graunt (how so my Muse did square)
Of every trade a number honest are.

The souldier now, whom I do honour much,
(How so I toucht) their faults that do offend,
I graunt we have of noble souldiers such,
(As maimes to fame) that will those vices shend:
I blame none such, the rest I wish amend.
Physicians good (as many sure there be)
Will not repine the lewde reprov'd to see.

How so I toucht some scriveners faults at quicke,
There are of those I knowe of honest fame:
Such have no cause against my Muse to kicke,
Nor yet the lewde, that wisely weyes the same;
I blase abuse, yet touch no creatures name:
Yea, to be short, I nypt no sort of men,
That truly can with malice charge my pen.