Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure/A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

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.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they are.

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

I happy am, if well with you.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, I here, though there, yet both but one.

Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending.