Classic Poem

. . . And if ye stand in doubt
Who brought this rhyme about,
My name is Colin Clout.
I purpose to shake out
All my cunning bag,
Like a clerkly hag.
For though my rhyme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rain-beaten,
Rusty and moth-eaten,
If ye take well therewith,
It hath in it some pith.
For, as far as I can see,
It is wrong with each degree:
For the temporalitie
Accuseth the spiritualitie;
The spiritual again
Doth grudge and complain
Upon the temporal men:
Thus each of other blother
The one against the other:
Alas, they make me shudder!
For in hudder-mudder
The Church is put in fault;
The prelates be so haute,
They say, and look so high,
As though they would fly
Above the starry sky.

Lay men say indeed
How they take no heed
Their silly sheep to feed,
But pluck away and pull
The fleeces of their wool
Unneth they leave a lock
Of wool among their flock! . . .