A Letter From Artemisia In The Town To Chloe In The Country Flashcards
Who durst that stormy,
Pathless world explore
Wrecked on the
Dull shore
How would a woman’s tottering bark be tossed
Where stoutest ships, the men of wit, are lost?
And my own self
Thus gravely I advise
To make yourself the
Fiddle of the town
To find th’ill humoured
Pleasure at their head
Cursed if you fail, and
Scorned though you succeed
That whore is scarce a more
Reproachful name than poetess
Like men that marry
Or maids that woo
Me thinks I stand in
Thorns til I begin
And who and
Who’s together
In verse by your command I write
The lofty flights of dangerous poetry
Love, the most generous
Passion of my mind
The softest refuge
Innocence can find
The only joy for which
Poor me were made
Tis chiefly carried on by our
Own sex; our silly sex!
Forsake the pleasure
To pursue the vice
The action love,
The passion is forgot
Even without approving,
They desire
Twixt good and bad,
Whimsy decides, not choice
At his request, thought
Much against his will
Hard fate
Of husbands
Rude and untaught
Like any Indian queen
Being known creates
Their certain woe
For half an hour in
Compliment she run
Should be an ass through
Choice, not want of wit
To her was known, everyone’s
Fault and merit but her own
That wretched
Thing Corrina
A man of wit, who found ‘twas
Dull to love above a day
Tis better than a good sense, than power or wealth,
To have a love untainted, youth and health
Whatever is
Not common
Affected are, that with
Their ears they see
