Classic Poem

All haile to the Poeticke Gleeke,
Bob, and Bob, and Steeuen eke.
The Puny-demy-riming Terse,
The dwarfes, the Elues, Tom Thumbs in verse;
The very Jeoffryes of the times
Both for reasons, and for rimes:
Who write but buttermilke and whey,
And yet for Sacke and Clarret pray.
You that are Poets of the Dale
Must take the finger first in Ale,
And leaue the Sacke and Clarretteeres,
To us the Belvoir-Mountaineeres.
Wee are high Comers, Birds of fame,
You are but Tonies of the game.
I will noe more Invention brew,
But cut the rope, and bid adieu.
For wee loose time to play at Wasters,
With 3 such greivous Poetasters.