Classic Poem

His horse must needs be skewbald as is hee,
A Gibbet fine explan'd, his Saddle tree.
Cladd with a sheepsskinn stolne: & the theiues string
Reprieu'd; by his old mothers hackeling
Proues right good girth webb; Hookes & fimbles from
His neighbours yate-post's, may by forg'rie come
To Buckles spurrs, shooes, stirrops: Some suppose
His snaffle, dropt from a Smithpuritans nose,
It is so poynant stuff: His pommell brasse
Till his distempring a cookes Ladle was:
Now it alludes vnto his face; & sign'd
W th KK s all ore; it emblem's all his mynd.
Boots, gloues, & bridle, to his vglie hand
All fitted, of a stinking knaves skinn tann'd.
Mounted on Rosinant; he takes a pride
To heare those rattling prizes on each side
Pewter, raw yarne, Bibles, & panns, & potts
Cherns, cheesfatts, Buffit stooles; from Syllie Sotts
Vanquish'd, & borne in tryumph, for old rents
Vnsatisfied, or new Amerciaments.
A sheafe of feathers in a Poke, to stick
In carriers horsetayles, if he find 'hem sick
In Ditches; or before The alehouse, stay,
In goes his feather, & he cries a stray.
If geese on Mercat highway stiles be left
In Baggs; all's his; He sweares they are a weft
Thus growes this mightie Politique in purse
Scaring whole townes, where all the people curse;
Takes Widowes teares of as a Sugred cupp;
Swallow's an Orphans Cottage at a Supp,
Leawd tales, Lies, Slaunders, are the Trade he driues,
And fiftie tymes forsworne he laughs, & thriues,
Esteem's a Baylife as M ANNS Master peice
The only Daintie Diuelish thing that is
And proues from Chaucers tale, what erê men talke
Wise Satans self in such a shape did walk.