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