To a Dilatory Chronicler

Shall I compare thee to a stack of hay?
Thou art more idle and more irritant.
Complacent while the plague doth have its way,
Acrawl with insect, worm and sycophant,
Thou squattest at the far right of the field,
A tempting dish for drooling English sheep.
Their bleats did raise thee up when thou appealed;
Ah me! what windblown weedstalks shall they reap.

And then what hands will work to augment thee,
Or flap thy sudden flame of rhetoric?
Who risk a tumble in thy company,
To suffer by a scratchy little prick?
By pitchfork to the trough shalt thou be spurred,
To take on thy true form as horse's turd.

with apologies to William Shakespeare