The Poetress’s Hasty Resolution

Reading my Verses, I liked them so well,

Self-love did make my Judgement to rebel.

Thinking them so good, I thought more to write;

Considering not how others would them like.

I writ so fast, I thought, if I lived long,

A Pyramid of Fame to build thereon.

Reason observing which way I was bent,

Did stay my hand, and asked me what I meant;

Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain,

On that which in the World small praise shall gain?

For shame leave off, said she, the Printer spare,

He’ll lose by your ill Poetry, I fear

Besides the World hath already such a weight

Of useless Books, as it is over-fraught.

Then pity take, do the World a good turn,

And all you write cast in the fire, and burn.

Angry I was, and Reason strook away,

When I did hear, what she to me did say.

Then all in haste I to the Press it sent,

Fearing Persuasion might my Book prevent:

But now ’tis done, with grief repent do I,

Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry.

Take pity, and my drooping Spirits raise,

Wipe off my tears with Handkerchiefs of Praise.