Classic Poem

Sir
When your knowne hand, and stile, and name
Into the campe of Wanton came
And that the Greekes with one consent
had read the lines which Troy had sent,
They all agreed, the Oracle
was only wise enough to tell,
what bold Pen should the answer make
and daunger, mixt with honor, take:
The Delphique messingers relate
that Mason is the choyse of fate,
and though most Greekes could better weild
a sword than hee, yet for a sheild
Ajax himselfe must give him place
and therfore fittest in this case,
But Sir Alasse whilst harmelesse I
thought to fullfill this destiny
a neerer fate which none could dread
nor yet foresee, hangs o're my head
That Idle booke which I of late
read with some feare, but with more hate,
(yet not suspecting that in tyme
the reading itt would grow a cryme)
since proves A libell, and all eyes
that have but seen it, att th' Assise
must Answer make, Sir I protest
most fearefully this is noe Jest:
But Sir the way to this Assise
by Wells first, and the Bishop lies
who sends for all, whom any Fame
accuses, (and 'mongst them my name)
that they have once but cast a looke
upon this guilty making booke,
Ned Drew hath his appearance sworne
and for that payd A Full halfe crowne:
Sir I should lesse feare this ill day
if that his lordship would not stray
from that one point, but what man knows
whither he may not list to pose
and overthrow A less devine,
shew his owne Learning, or try myne?
if in A Wanton strength I say
hee should but offer att that play,
the Tower of Pitcombe then would quake
the ewe tree all her leaves would shake;
Sir I too long have tyr'd your Eares,
with the harsh Jarrs of my owne Feares,
I feare noe one thing now, but all
that ever Curate did befall: