I Happy Am, If Well With You.

To Sing Of Wars, Of Captains, And Of Kings/of Cities Founded, Common-wealths Begun/for My Mean Pen Are Too Superior Things.

I Happy Am, If Well With You.

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.

Satan, That Great Angler, Hath His Sundry Baits For Sundry Tempers Of Men, Which They All Catch Greedily At, But Few Perceive The Hook Till It Be Too Late.

Flesh Of My Flesh, Bone Of My Bone, I Here, Though There, Yet Both But One.