'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.<br /><br />Anne Kingsmill Finch<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-appology/
