CHloë, in Verse, by your Command I write; Shortly you'll bid me ride astride, and fight. These Talents better with our Sex agree, Than lofty flights of dangerous Poetrie, Amongst the men, I mean the men of Wit, At least that pass'd for such, before they writ. How many bold Adventures for the Bays, Proudly designing large return of praise? Who durst that stormy pathless World explore, Were soon dasht back, and wrackt on the dull shore, Broke of that little stock they had before. How would a womans tottering Barque be tost, Where stoutest Ships (the men of Wit) are lost? When I reflect on this, I straight grow wise, And my own self thus gravely I advise: Dear Artemiza, Poetry is a Snare, Bedlam has many Mansions,—have a care. Your Muse diverts you, makes the Reader sad; You fancie y'are inspir'd, he thinks you mad. But 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,— Like Men that marry, or like Maids that woe, '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: Y'expect to hear at least what Loves have past In this lewd Town, since you and I met last.

"With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky. How silently, and with how wan a face!" [2] Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race? Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace, Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I The power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven, Should sally forth to keep thee company. What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv'n Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee! But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n, Queen both for beauty and for majesty.