Classic Poem

You idle Drones, that fleece and cannot feede,
You speechles ones, that can not barke nor bay:
You Slowwoormes mates, that make so euill speede,
To spie the Foxe, and driue the Wolfe away,
This Booke shall be your iudge an other day.
Which sweetely doth recorde:
The mercies of our Lord.
And liuely paints the whoredome of that Beast,
Whose marke Gods Saints do faythfully detest.