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Anne Finch
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“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 redeem'd.”
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“Whilst Life by Fate is lent to me, / Whilst here below, I stay, / Religion, my sole businesse be, / And Poetry, my play.”
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“Tho' I confesse, I have apply'd / Sweet mirth, and musick, and have try'd / A thousand other arts beside, / To drive thee from my darken'd breast, / Thou, who has banish'd all my rest.”
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“Thou 'llt stay, 'till kinder Death supplys thy place, / The surer Friend, tho' with the harsher face.”
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“... the World, by tend'rest proof discovers / They err, who say that husbands can't be lovers. / With such return of passion, as is due ...”
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“Love without Poetry's refining Aid / Is a dull Bargain, and but coarsely made ...”
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“Friendship still has been design'd, / The Support of Human-kind ...”
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“Absence on Love effects the same / As winds oppos'd to fire / Extinguishes a feeble Flame / And blows a great one higher.”
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“How gayly is at first begun / Our life's uncertain Race!”
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“To-Morrow and To-Morrow, cheat our Youth: / In riper Age, To-Morrow still we cry, / Not thinking, that the present Day we Dye; / Unpractis'd all the Good we had Design'd; / There's No To-Morrow to a Willing Mind.”
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“O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway / All that have Life, must certainly Obey ...”
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“Of each Sex the two best Gifts enjoy'd / The skill to write, the Modesty to hide.”
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“How we are fallen! Fallen by mistaken rules / And Education's more than Nature's fools; / Debarred from all improvement of the mind / And to be dull, expected and designed / And if someone would soar above the rest, / With warmer fancy and ambitions pressed, / So strong the opposing faction still appears, / the hopes to thrive can ne'er outweigh the fears.”
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“By thee, Religion, all we know / That should enlighten here below, / Is veil'd in darkness, and perplext / With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vext, / And some restraint implied from each perverted text, / Whilst touch not, taste not, what is freely given, / Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous Heaven.”
Anne Finch, English poet, critic
(1661 - 1720)
Full name: Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea.