Chapter 3
The Poetess' Hasty Resolution by Margaret Cavendish Read for Librebox.org by Bianca Thompson Reading my verses, I liked them so well. Self-love did make my judgment to rebel. Thinking them so good, I thought more to write,
considering not how others would them like. I writ so fast, I thought if I lived long, a pyramid of fame to build thereon. Reason observing which way I was bent, that stay my hand and ask me what I meant.
Will you, said she, thus waste your time in vain on that which in the world small praise shall gain. For shame leave off, said she, the printer's fare. He'll lose by your ill poetry, I fear. Besides, the world hath already such a weight
of useless books as it is over fraught. Then pity take, do the world a good turn, and all you write cast in the fire and burn. Angry I was, and reason struck away. When I did hear, what she to me did say.
Then all in haste I to the press accent, fearing persuasion might my book prevent. But now to stun, with grief repent do I. Hang down my head with shame, blush, sigh, and cry. Tick pity, and my drooping spirit's raids
wipe off my tears with handkerchiefs of praise. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.
