Advanc’d her height and sparkled in her eye.
Nor did her sex at all obstruct her fame,
But higher ’mong the stars it fix’d her name;
What she did write, not only all allow’d,
But every laurel to her laurel bow’d!
The envious age, only to me alone,
Will not allow what I do write my own;
But let them rage and ’gainst a maid conspire,
So deathless numbers from my tuneful lyre
Do ever flow; so, Phoebus, I by thee