If any ask why there's no great She-Poet, Let me come live with me, and he will know it: If I'd indite an ode or mend a sonnet, I must go choose a dish or tie a bonnet; For she who serves in forced virginity Since I am wedded will not have me free; And those new flowers my garden is so rich in Must die for clammy odors of my kitchen. Yet I had chosen Dian's barrenness I'm not a full woman, and I can't be less, So could I state no certain truth for life, Can I survive and be my good man's wife? Yes! I will make the servant's cause my own That she in pity leave me hours alone So I will tend her mind and feed her wit That she in time have her own joy of it; And count it pride that not a sonnet's spoiled Lacking her choice betwixt the baked and boiled. So those young flowers my garden is so rich in Will blossom from the ashes of my kitchen! |