'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 Ideas'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; mine 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 less to be Applauded then forgiven.
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