Classic Poem

To me whom lords & ladies often teach
To looke for iust & seasonable breach
Of swelling promises, It was no news
That so profest a visitt you refuse;
The rich and poor are differenc'd in this
We must, but you must not keepe promises.
Nor did you single now fall off, but drew
Along that Angell which is double you
Shee that is fair clean through, in soule & face
Whose conversation is next good to grace
Whose heavenly apparition wher it comes
In lowly Cottage, glads & gilds the rooms
Is it not hell while thus our hopes you crosse
And we condemnd to paine of sence & losse
One while hott rage for missing your repaire
Torments, anone we freeze in cold dispayre
May we not be redeemd? You haue heard tell
One gentle Pope fetcht Traianes soule from hell
By suffring paine in his owne feet, alas
You may goe lesse: let but your palfrays passe
Our gravell ways, which if they straine to doe
Youle saue in soules, what they can loose in shooe.