Classic Poem

But should some snarling critic chance to view
These undigested lays designed for you,
The surly blade, methinks, would storm and fume:
" How dares this silly woman thus presume,
In her crude, injudicious lines, to name
Those ancient poets of immortal fame?
The women now, forsooth, are authors grown,
And write such stuff our sex would blush to own!"

That I am dull is what I own and know;
But why I mayn't be privileged to show
That dullness to a private friend or two
(As to the world male writers often do),
I can't conceive. Dullness alone's my fault,
Guiltless of impious jest, or obscene thought!
None e'er can say that I have loosely writ,
Nor would at that dear rate be thought a wit.
Fair modesty was once our sex's pride,
But some have thrown that bashful grace aside:
The Behns, the Manleys, head this motley train,
Politely lewd and wittily profane;
Their wit, their fluent style (which all must own)
Can never for their levity atone.
But Heaven still, its goodness to denote,
For every poison gives an antidote:
First, our Orinda, spotless in her fame,
As chaste in wit, rescued our sex from shame;
And now, when Heywood's soft, seducing style
Might heedless youth and innocence beguile,
Angelic wit and purest thoughts agree
In tuneful Singer, and great Winchilsea.
For me, who never durst to more pretend
Than to amuse myself, and please my friend:
If she approves of my unskilful lays,
I dread no critic, and desire no praise.