`Tis true I write and tell me by what Rule I am alone forbid to play the fool To follow through the Groves a wand`ring Muse And fain`d Idea`s for my pleasures chuse Why shou`d it in my Pen be held a fault Whilst Mira paints her face, to paint a thought Whilst Lamia to the manly Bumper flys And borrow`d Spiritts sparkle in her Eyes Why shou`d itt be in me a thing so vain To heat with Poetry my colder Brain? But I write ill and there-fore shou`d forbear Does Flavia cease now at her fortieth year In ev`ry Place to lett that face be seen Which all the Town rejected at fifteen Each Woman has her weaknesse; mind [sic] indeed Is still to write tho` hopelesse to succeed Nor to the Men is this so easy found Ev`n in most Works with which the Witts abound (So weak are all since our first breach with Heav`n) Ther`s lesse to be Applauded than forgiven.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
