Classic Poem

W it Reason, Grace, Religion, Nature, Zeale,
Wrought all together in thy working braine
And to thy worke did set this certaine seale;
Pure is the colour that will take no staine.
What need I praise? the worke it selfe doth praise:
In words, in worth, in forme and matter to
A world of wits are working many wayes
But few haue done, what thou dost truly doe:
Was neuer Tailor shapt so fit a Coat,
Vnto the Corps of any earthly creature,
As thou hast made for that foule Romish Goat
In true description of his diuellish nature
Besides such matter of judicious wit,
With quaint conceits so fitting cuery fancie;
As well may proue, who scornes and spights at it
Shall either shew their folly or their franzie
Then let the Popes Buls roare Bell, Booke & Candle
In all the Diuels circuit sound thy curse:
Whilst thou with truth dost euerie tryall handle.
God blesse thy worke, and thou art ne're the worse.
And while hels friends their hateful fo do proue thee,
The Saints on earth & God in heauen will loue thee.