Classic Poem

Congius in thirty winters space hath pend
(The age of man almost) an aged worke,
For most of it olde authors him did lend;
Yet he more fraudfull then a Iew or Turke,
These honest men would of their due outface,
And sweares he borrowed none: It's true he stale it.
For men may tracke him plaine from place to place.
And see him, like a theefe, where he let fall it.
Yet brasen-fac'd blinde Bayard he doth cracke,
He it deuisd, as fast as pen could wend
At idle times, for recreation's sake;
And in a yeare did it begin and end.
It's true indeed a yeare and some od daies,
Mounting to some sixe hundred months and more,
He it compilde (be it spoken to his praise)
But then I must confesse he laboured sore:
For night and day he toyld till it was done:
And fileht as fast as ere his pen could runne.