Classic Poem

See of phanatique fowlers a fresh shole,
With baits of Liberty who decoy the Soul,
Copernicism these by their whimsies prove;
Where all are giddy, how can the Earth not move?
Schisms weathercocks, with every wind turn round:
That faith's as light as aire which hath no ground.
Camelion -like with every object change,
Whose faith is fancy, how can he choose but range?
Snails of all Heresies which contract the slime;
Spunges which suck in all the dregs of time:
Mix with the puddle of their fancies wine
Of sacred Writ, intitle sin Divine;
Honying their poison, sugaring o're their sin:
Without an Angel, Devil is within.
All these adulterers of Sacred Writ,
Each doth a Concubine to his fancy fit.
A various glosse, on which his fancy set,
A spurious brood of Sectaries doth beget.
All 'gainst Idolatry cry; yet all approve,
While they the Idols of their Fancies love.