Текст оригинала на английском языке
My name is Colin Clout. I purpose to shake out All my cunning bag Like a clerkly hag: For, though my rhyme be ragged, Tattered and jagged, Rudely rain-beaten, Rusty and moth-eaten, If ye take well therewith It hath in it some pith. For, as far as I can see, It is wrong with each degree. The temporal Accuseth the spiritual; The spiritual again Doth grudge and complain Upon the temporal men. Thus each raiseth a pother, One against the other. Alas, they make me shudder! For (do not say it loud!) The prelates are so proud, They say, and look so high As though they would fly Above the starry sky. Laymen say indeed How they take no heed Their silly sheep to feed, But pluck away and pull The fleeces of their wool; Scarcely they leave a lock Of wool among their flock. And as for their cunning, A-humming and mumming, They make of it a jape. They gasp and they gape All to have promotion— That is their whole devotion!
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