The Duchess to Her Readers

A Poet am I neither born nor bred,

But to a witty poet married:

Whose brain is fresh and pleasant as the Spring,

Where Fancies grow and where the Muses sing.

There oft I lean my head, and listening, hark,

To catch his words and all his fancies mark:

And from that garden show of beauties take

Whereof a posy I in verse may make.

Thus I, that have no gardens of my own,

There gather flowers that are newly blown.