Gertrude Aston Thimelby

“ Who t' ease his paine suckt his invenom'd soare?
And that brave dame, who, following her lord,
Stept still before at sight oth' frightful sword,
Making her breast his buckler, fully prov'd,
That it was him and not herselfe she lov'd.
Say, truth with fables here you mixed see,
That shews who were, and these how we may be.
If you alleage those golden dayes are done,
Our iron age will not afford me one
Of that fam'd stamp, in all things els I yeald,
But in this cause I dare mentaine the field;
And nere goe farther, though I'me sure you'de finde,
If not mongst men, most women of this minde. ”