Today, a poem by Margaret Cavendish, with nods to AB
[I Language want, to dresse my Fancies in,]
I Language want, to dresse my Fancies in,
The Haire’s uncurl’d, the Garments loose, and thin;
Had they but Silver Lace to make them gay,
Would be more courted then in poore array.
Or had they Art, might make a better show;
But they are plaine, yet cleanly doe they goe.
The world in Bravery doth take delight,
And glistering Shews doe more attract the sight;
And every one doth honour a rich Hood,
As if the outside made the inside good.
And every one doth bow, and give the place,
Not for the Mans sake, but the Silver Lace.
Let me intreat in my poore Booke’s behalfe,
That all may not adore the Golden Calf.
Consider, pray, Gold hath no life therein,
And Life in Nature is the richest thing.
So Fancy is the Soul in Poetrie,
And if not good, a Poem ill must be.
Be just, let Fancy have the upper place,
And then my Verses may perchance finde grace.
If flattering Language all the Passions rule,
Then Sense, I feare, will be a meere dull Foole.
