The world no longer lets me love, My hope and treasure are above.

I wish my Sun may never set, but burn.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue/ Who says my hand a needle better fits./ A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong/ For such despite they cast on female wits;/ If what I do prove well, it won't advance,/ They'll say it's stolen, or else, it was by chance.

Some laborers have hard hands, and old sinners have brawny consciences.

If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.

My hope and treasure lies above