Category: PART III

There is no spirit frights me so much as poet’s satyrs¹ and their fairy wits, which are so subtle, airy, and nimble, that² they pass through very small crevices and crannies³ of errors and mistakes, and dance upon every line, and round every fancy, which when they find to be dull and sleepy, they pinch them black and blue, with Robin Hood’s jests. But I hope you will spare me, for the hearth is swept clean, and a basin of water with a clean towel set by, and the ashes raked up—wherefore let my book sleep quietly, and the watch-light burn⁴ clearly, and not blue and blinkingly, nor the pots and pans be disturbed. But let it be still from your noise, that the effeminate cat may not mew, nor the masculine curs bark and⁵ howl forth railings to disturb my harmless book’s rest.

But if you will judge my book severely, I doubt I shall be cast to the bar of folly, and there be⁶ forced to hold up my hand of indiscretion, and confess ignorance to my enemies’ dislike. For I have no eloquent orator to plead for me, as to⁷ persuade a severe judge, nor flattery to bribe a corrupt one, which makes me afraid I shall lose my suit of praise. Yet I have Truth to speak in my behalf for some favor, which says,⁸ first, that women writing seldom makes it seem strange, and unusual. You will say, what⁹ is unusual seems fantastical, and what is fantastical seems odd, and what is odd seems¹⁰ ridiculous. But as Truth tells you, all is not gold that glisters, so she tells you all is not poor that hath not golden clothes on, nor mad, which is out of fashion. And if I¹¹ be out of the fashion¹² because women do not generally write, yet before you laugh at me, let your reason view strictly whether the fashion be not useful, graceful, easy, comely, and modest. And if it be any of these, spare your smiles of scorn for those that are wanton, careless, rude, and¹³ unbecoming. For though these¹⁴ garments are¹⁵ plain, and unusual, yet they are clean and decent.

Next, Truth tells you that women have seldom or never (or at least in these latter¹⁶ ages) written books¹⁷ of poetry, unless it were in their dressings, which can be no longer read than beauty lasts. Wherefore it hath¹⁸ seemed, hitherto, as if Nature had compounded men’s brains with more of the sharp atoms, which make¹⁹ the hot and dry element, and women’s with more of the round atoms, which figure makes the cold and moist element. And though water is a useful element, yet fire is the nobler, being of an aspiring quality. But it is rather a dishonor than²⁰ a fault in Nature, that²¹ her inferior works move²² towards perfection; though the best of her works can never be so perfect as herself, yet she is pleased when they imitate her—and to imitate her, I hope you will be pleased, I imitate you. ’Tis true, my verses came not out of Jupiter’s head, wherefore²³ they cannot prove a Pallas; yet they are like chaste Penelope’s work,²⁴ for I wrote them in my husband’s absence, to delude melancholy thoughts and avoid idle time.

The last thing Truth tells you is that my²⁵ verses were gathered too soon, wherefore they cannot be of a mature growth, for the sun of time was only at that height as to draw them forth, but gave not²⁶ heat enough to ripen them, which makes me fear they will taste harsh and unpleasant. But if they were strewed with some sugar of praise,²⁷ and baked in the oven of applause, they might²⁸ pass at a general feast, for though²⁹ they do not relish with nice and delicate palates, yet the vulgar may digest them, for they care not what the meat is if the crust be good, or indeed thick—for they judge according to the quantity, not the quality or rarity—but they are oft persuaded by the senses of others more than their own. Wherefore, if it be not worthy of commendations, pray be silent, and cast not out severe censures, and I shall give thanks for what is eaten.

¹

I desire all those which read this part of my book to consider that it is thick of fancies, and therefore requires the more study. But if they understand them not,² I desire they would do as those which have a troubled conscience, and cannot resolve themselves of some doubts, and therefore³ are required by the church to go to a minister⁴ to have them explained, and not to interpret them⁵ according to their own imaginations. So I entreat those that cannot find out the conceit of my fancies to ask a poet where the conceit lies before they censure, and not to accuse my book for nonsense, condemning it with a false construction, through an ignorant zeal of malice. But I desire them not to⁶ mistake and⁷ ask a rhymer instead of a poet, lest⁸ I be condemned as a traitor to sense through the blindness of the judge’s understanding. But⁹ if the judge be learned in the laws of poetry and honesty, and is free from¹⁰ bribes of envy, I shall not need to fear but that the truth will be found out, and its innocence will be freed¹¹ at the bar of censure and be sent home with the acquittance¹² of applause. Yet pray¹³ do not think I am so presumptuous as to¹⁴ compare myself¹⁵ to the church; I only¹⁶ compare truth to the church, and truth may be compared from the lowest subject¹⁷ to the highest.

At last I must entreat you¹⁸ to read this part of my book very slowly,¹⁹ and to observe very strictly every word you²⁰ read, because in most of these poems, every word is a fancy. Wherefore if you²¹ lose by not marking, or skip by too hasty reading, you²² will entangle the sense of the whole poem.²³

As birds to hatch their young ones sit i’th’spring,¹
So do some ages² broods of poets bring,
Which to the world in verse do sweetly sing.

And as their notes not art but Nature taught,³
So fancies in the brain that⁴ Nature wrought,                      5
Are best; what imitation makes is⁵ naught.

For though these⁶ sing as well as well may be,
And make their notes of what they learn agree,
Yet he that teaches has the⁷ mastery,

And ought to have the crown of praise and fame,              10
In the long roll of time to write his name,
But⁸ those that steal from him are much to blame.⁹

There’s none should places have in Fame’s high court,
But those that first do win Invention’s fort,
Not messengers, which¹⁰ only make report.                         15

To messengers rewards of thanks are due
For their great pains, telling their message true—
But not the honor of¹¹ invention new.

Many there are that suits will make to wear
Of several patches stol’n,¹² both here and there,                 20
That to the world they gallants might¹³ appear.

And the poor vulgar, which but little know,
Do reverence all that makes a glist’ring show,
Examine not how it comes to be so.¹⁴

Then do they call their friends and all their kin;                 25
They¹⁵ factions make, the ignorant to win,¹⁶
With whose help they to Fame’s high court crowd in.¹⁷

¹

Some will a line or two from Horace take,²
And pick his fancies, which their own they make,³
And some⁴ of Homer, Virgil, Ovid sweet
Will steal, and make them in their books⁵ to meet,
Yet make⁶ them not in their right shapes appear,⁷             5
But like as spirits in dark shades to err;⁸
Thus as magicians spirit-troublers they’re,⁹
And may the name of poet-jugglers bear,¹⁰
Which th’ignorant by sorcery¹¹ delude,
Showing false glasses to the multitude,                                 10
And with a small and undiscernèd¹² hair,
They pull Truth out the place wherein¹³ she were.
These should by th’poets laws be hanged, and so¹⁴
Into the Hell of condemnation go.¹⁵

¹

Most of our modern writers nowadays
Consider not the fancy but the phrase,
As if fine words were wit, or one should say
A woman’s handsome if her clothes be gay,
Regarding not what beauty’s in the face,                              5
Nor what proportion doth the body grace,
As when her shoes be high to say she’s tall,
And when she is straight-laced to say she’s small.
When painted, or her hair is curled with art,
Though of itself ’tis² plain, and her skin³ swart,                 10
We cannot say that from her thanks are⁴ due
To Nature, nor those arts in her we view.
Unless she them invented, and so taught
The world to set forth that which is stark naught.
But fancy is the eye gives life to all;                                       15
Words, the complexion, as a whited wall.
Fancy the form is: flesh, blood, skin and bone;⁵
Words are but shadows; substance they have none.⁶
But number is the motion gives the grace,
And is the count’nance of⁷ a well-formed face.                   20