Classic Poem

To seem for to revenge each wrong in hasty wise,
By proof we see of guiltless men, it hath not been the guise.
In slander's loathsome brute, where they condemnèd be,
With rageless mood they suffer wrong, where truth shall try them free.
These are the patient pangs that pass within the breast
Of those that feel their cause by mine where wrong hath right opprest.
I know how by suspect I have been judged awry,
And granted guilty in the thing that clearly I deny.
My faith may me defend, if I might lovèd be,
God judge me so, as from the guilt I know me to be free.
I wrote but for myself, the grief was all mine own,
As who would prove extremity by proof it might be known.
Yet, are there such that say they can my meaning deem,
Without respect of this old truth, things prove not as they seem.
Whereby it may befall, in judgment to be quick,
To make themselves suspect therewith that needed not to kick.
Yet, in resisting wrong, I would not have it thought
I do amiss, as though I knew by whom it might be wrought.
If any such there be that here-with-all be vext,
It were their virtue to beware and deem me better next.