Classic Poem

Shee yeilds, she yeilds, Pale Envy said Amen
The first of woemen to the Last of men.
Just soe those frailer beings Angells fell
Ther's noe mid way (it seemes) twix't heav'n and hell,
Was it your end in making her, to show
Things must bee rais'd soe high to fall soe low?
Since her nor Angells their owne worth secures
Looke to it gods! the next turne must bee yours
You who in careles scorne Laught att the wayes
Of Humble Love and call'd 'em rude Essayes
Could you submitt to Lett this Heavy thing
Artless and wittless, noe way merriting.