Classic Poem

Let not the inhabitants of Hell despair,
For one 's got out who seemed to be locked in;
And Cecco 's the poor devil that I mean,
Who thought for ever and ever to be there.
But the leaf 's turned at last, and I declare
That now my state of glory doth begin:
For Messer Angiolieri 's slipped his skin,
Who plagued me, summer and winter, many a year.
Make haste to Cecco, Sonnet, with a will,
To him who no more at the Abbey dwells;
Tell him that Brother Henry 's half dried up.
He'll never more be down-at-mouth, but fill
His beak at his own beck, till his life swells
To more than Enoch's or Elijah's scope.