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Love, thou art best of Human Joys, Our chiefest Happiness below; All other Pleasures are but Toys, Musick without Thee is but Noise, And Beauty but a… - Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
" "Love, thou art best of Human Joys,
Our chiefest Happiness below;
All other Pleasures are but Toys,
Musick without Thee is but Noise,
And Beauty but an empty show.Heav’n, who knew best what Man wou’d move,
And raise his Thoughts above the Brute;
Said, Let him Be, and Let him Love;
That must alone his Soul improve,
Howe’er Philosophers dispute.
English
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About Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
(née Kingsmill; April 1661 – 5 August 1720) was an English poet and courtier. Finch wrote in many genres and on many topics, including fables, odes, songs, and religious verse. Her works also allude to other female authors of the time, such as Aphra Behn and Katherine Philips. Through her commentary on the mental and spiritual equality of the sexes and the importance of women fulfilling their potential as a moral duty to themselves and to society, she is regarded as one of the integral female poets of the Augustan Era. Finch died in Westminster in 1720 and was buried at her home at .
Also Known As
Alternative Names:
Anne Kingsmill Finch, Countess of Winchelsea
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Anne Countess of Winchelsea
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Anne Finch Countess of Winchilsea
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Anne Kingsmill
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Additional quotes by Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea
Cou’d our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
Cloath’d only in a rude, unpolish’d Skin,
Cou’d he a vain Fantastick Nymph have seen,
In all her Airs, in all her antick Graces,
Her various Fashions, and more various Faces;
How had it pos’d that Skill, which late assign’d
Just Appellations to Each several Kind!
A right idea of the Sight to frame;
T’have guest from what New Element she came;
T’have hit the wav’ring Form, and giv’n this Thing a Name.
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Free as Nature’s first intention Was to make us, I’ll be found,
Nor by subtle Man’s invention Yeild to be in Fetters bound
By one that walks a freer round.Mariage does but slightly tye Men Whil’st close Pris’ners we remain,
They the larger Slaves of Hymen Still are begging Love again
At the full length of all their chain.
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