Classic Poem

Lord, help, it is high time for me to call:
No men are left that charity do love,
Nay, e'en the race of good men are decayed.
Of things vain with vain mates they babble all;
Their abject lips no breath but flatt'ry move,
Sent from false heart, on double meaning stayed.
But Thou (O Lord) give them a thorough fall;
Those lying lips from cozening head remove,
In falsehood wrapped, but in their pride displayed.

Our tongues, say they, beyond them all shall go;
We both have pow'r and will our tales to tell,
For what Lord rules our bold emboldened breast?
" Ah, now e'en for their sakes, that taste of woe,
Whom troubles toss, whose natures need doth quell,
E'en for the sighs, true sighs of man distressed,
I will get up," saith God, " and my help show
Against all them that against him do swell;
Maugre their force, I will set him at rest."

These are God's words, God's words are ever pure:
Pure, purer than the silver throughly tried
When fire sev'n times hath spent his earthly parts.
Then Thou (O Lord) shalt keep the good still sure;
By Thee preserved, in Thee they shall abide;
Yea, in no age Thy bliss from them departs.
Thou seest each side the walking doth endure
Of these bad folks, more lifted up with pride,
Which, if it last, woe to all simple hearts.