This page has been validated.
( 3 )
_-_fleuron.png)
Artemisa to Cloe.
CLOE in VERSE by your Command I Write,
Shortly you'll bid me ride a-stride and Fight;
Such Talents better with our SEX agree,
Than lofty flights of dangerous Poetry.
Amongst the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least they pass'd for such before they writ:)
How many bold Adventurers for the Baies,
Proudly designing large Returns of Praise.
Who durst that Stormy Path-less World Explore,
Were soon toss'd back and wrackt on the dull Shore,
Broke of that little Stock they had before?
How would a Womans tottering Bark be toss'd,
Where stoutest Ships, the Men of War are lost.
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my own self I gravely thus advise:
Dear Artemisa Poetry's a Snare,
Bedlam has many Mansions, have a Care;
Your Muse directs you, makes your Reader sad;
You fancy y'are inspir'd, he thinks you mad.
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,
To make your self the Fiddle of the Town:
To find th' ill-humour'd Pleasure at their need,
Scorn'd if you fail, and Curss'd if you succeed.
Yet like an arrant Woman, as I am,
No sooner well convinc'd, Writing's a shame;
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful Name
Than Poetess!———
As Men that Marry, or as Maids that Woo,
Cause 'tis the very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the Contradiction and the Sin;
Methinks I stand on Thorns till I begin.
You expect to hear at least, what Loves have past
In this lewd Town, since you and I meet last;
What Change hath hapned of Intrigues, and whether
The old Ones last; or who and who's together:
Shortly you'll bid me ride a-stride and Fight;
Such Talents better with our SEX agree,
Than lofty flights of dangerous Poetry.
Amongst the Men, I mean the Men of Wit,
(At least they pass'd for such before they writ:)
How many bold Adventurers for the Baies,
Proudly designing large Returns of Praise.
Who durst that Stormy Path-less World Explore,
Were soon toss'd back and wrackt on the dull Shore,
Broke of that little Stock they had before?
How would a Womans tottering Bark be toss'd,
Where stoutest Ships, the Men of War are lost.
When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise,
And my own self I gravely thus advise:
Dear Artemisa Poetry's a Snare,
Bedlam has many Mansions, have a Care;
Your Muse directs you, makes your Reader sad;
You fancy y'are inspir'd, he thinks you mad.
Consider too, 'twill be discreetly done,
To make your self the Fiddle of the Town:
To find th' ill-humour'd Pleasure at their need,
Scorn'd if you fail, and Curss'd if you succeed.
Yet like an arrant Woman, as I am,
No sooner well convinc'd, Writing's a shame;
That Whore is scarce a more reproachful Name
Than Poetess!———
As Men that Marry, or as Maids that Woo,
Cause 'tis the very worst thing they can do:
Pleas'd with the Contradiction and the Sin;
Methinks I stand on Thorns till I begin.
You expect to hear at least, what Loves have past
In this lewd Town, since you and I meet last;
What Change hath hapned of Intrigues, and whether
The old Ones last; or who and who's together:
A 2
But
