This is a random poem I wrote in fake Early Modern English that does not yet have a title. 😃

Every bumbling creature
Hath some semblance of a wit,
Without he have a startling lack
Of reading nor hath writ.

My etiquette hath flown from me, 
On shaft of learned self-import.
Return, return, I prithee!
Before thy absence disgrace me like a wart.

Thy polished glove be courteous, 
Thy smile quite as slick.
But what of this? 
I trust thee not —
Thy cunning little trick.

Though my gesture may lack courtesy,
Though my ways be uncouth,
Conscience and a moral heart
Are kingdom and the truth.

But alas! 
See this disgrace —
I decry this lowly slip.
Such a word
Hath scarce a place:
’Tis but a stumble of the lip.

Fear not these trials thine,
Deluge of smallest putters-off:
Thy mind doth glow; thy heart doth shine!
Thy lack is but a little cough.

Pretense is great;
Indeed I squirm —
This highfalutin lie innate!
I find relief 
In earthen worm
Who scarcely wakes up far too late.