Pilgrim Poet

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue,
Who sayes, my hand a needle better fits,
A Poets Pen, all scorne, I should thus wrong;
For such despighte they cast on female wits:
If what i doe prove well, it wo’nt advance,
They’l say its stolen, or else, it was by chance.

Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

You go girl.

via the lovely and talented Today in Literature