The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine

They tell us we mistake our sex and way; Good breeding, fassion, dancing, dressing, play Are the accomplishments we shou’d desire; To write, or read, or think, or to enquire Wou’d cloud our beauty and exaust our time, And interrupt the …

Did I my lines intend for publick view, How many censures wou’d their faults persue; ... True judges might condemn their want of witt, And all might say, they’re by a Woman writt.

This to the crown and blessing of my life, The much lov’d husband of a happy wife; To him whose constant passion found the art To win a stubborn and ungratefull heart, And to the world by tend’rest proof discovers, They err, who say that …

Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, Such an intruder on the rights of men, Such a presumptuous Creature, is esteem’d, The fault, can by no vertue be redeem’d.

Judge not my passion by my want of skill: Many love well, though they express it ill; And I your censure cou’d with pleasure bear, Wou’d you but soon returne, and speake it here.

How are we fal’n, fal’n by mistaken rules, And Education’s more than Nature’s fools.