Not one he founde, in the ryght waye,
In harte and tunge, haue they deceyte,
Their lyppes throwe fourth, a poysened beyte.
Their myndes are mad, their mouthes are wode.
And swyft they be, in shedynge blode.
So blynde they are, no truth they knowe,
No feare of God, in them wyll growe.
How can that cruell sort be good?
Of Gods dere folcke, whych sucke the blood?
On hym ryghtly, shall they not call,