The Pulpets complaynt of a Diabolicall Lyer

Strong was I built, else had I surely bin
Crusht to the ground by thy grand weight of sinne,
Whose pride hath father'd many a loathsome lie,
On the sweet Saints, Bernard and Hillary,
Grave Augustine, with others; and doth vent
More foolish Buls, than ere the Popedome sent
Into the world: nor ever Sermon makes,
But straight turnes vagrant, and the text forsakes.
Base sonne of Levi, that didst never know
Thy father, nor thy pedegree canst show
By th'Booke: if yet thou hast one graine of grace,
Rub off that brazen morphew from thy face,
Do as the begger on a Sunny day
Does by his Lice, throw baser lies away,
And either ballast that light skull of thine
With learnings weight, that makes a grave Divine,
Or at the Altars hornes (for oathes and lies)
Hang a worse Priest than ere did sacrifice.