Alas! a woman that attempts the pen, Such an intruder on the rights of men, Such a presumptuous Creature, is esteem’d, The fault, can by no vertue be… - 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.

Judge not my passion by my want of skill:
Many love well, though they express it ill;
And I your censure cou’d with pleasure bear,
Wou’d you but soon returne, and speake it here.

The King, the Priest, the Prophet, all are Thine,
Nor wou’d ev’n God (in Flesh) thy Stroke decline.