Classic Poem

The church I hate, and have good reason:
For, there my grandsire cut his weasand:
He cut his weasand at the altar;
I keep my gullet for the halter.

In church your grandsire cut his throat;
To do the job too long he tarried,
He should have had my hearty vote,
To cut his throat before he married.
THE JUDGE SPEAKS

I'm not the grandson of that ass Quin;
Nor can you prove it, Mr Pasquin.
My grand-dame had gallants by twenties,
And bore my mother by a prentice.
This, when my grandsire knew, they tell us he
In Christ Church cut his throat for jealousy.
And, since the alderman was mad you say,
Then, I must be so too, ex traduce.