These lines were justly praised by

Mr. Murray. It is said that Pope wrote down and borrowed these words in his poems: Now, the narcissus has defeated the weak mind; We were in a deep coma under the fragrant pain. It is a pity that a woman who can write such poems, who is so devoted to nature and thinking, has to write anger and pain. But how can she be inferior to this? When I think of those sarcasm and ridicule, flattery from flatterers, and suspicion from professional poets, I can't help asking myself this question. She must have locked herself in a country room to write, and was tortured by worries and pain in her heart. Although her husband was considerate to her, her married life was perfect. I said, "Presumably," because if anyone wants to know about Mrs. Winchelsea's life, as usual, we will find that we almost know nothing about her. She suffered from depression, which we can at least tell a bit of the truth, because she told us that when she was depressed, she imagined: my poetry was slandered and my actions were speculated; This is a stupid futility, or a arrogant mistake. As far as we know, such a reproachful act is nothing but a harmless stroll in the field and a reverie in my heart: my hand likes to pursue uniqueness and rarity, deviates from the smooth road and does not walk the main road, and how can the faded silk thread embroider every bit of the rose.

Naturally, if this is her pleasure and habit, it will inevitably make people laugh. It is said that Pope or Guy satirized her as "a graffiti nerd". It is also said that she once laughed at Guy, so she offended him. She said his "Trivia" showed that "he is better suited to carry sedan chairs than to sit on them." However, Mr. Murray said it was just "gossip" and "boring". But this time, I don't agree, because I think that even if there is only gossip, more is better, so I can do a lot to find or piece together a certain image of this sad lady. She likes to walk in the fields and often has some fantastic ideas. She is so sharp and thoughtless about "boring housework". But, Mr. Murray said, she had become disorganized. Her talent is full of weeds and tangled by thorns, which can no longer bloom the original unique and graceful brilliance. So I put her poetry collection back on the bookshelf and turned to another great lady, the Duchess of Newcastle, who was silly and dreamy all day but loved by Lamb. She was older than Mrs. Winchell, but she was also a contemporary. They are very different from each other, but they are both nobles and have no children. They are both married to the best husbands. Both of them are full of enthusiasm for poetry, and they are haggard for the same reason. Open the book of the Duchess and see the same burning anger, "Women live like bats or owls, work like livestock, die like worms..."

She lived like an eagle, worked like an animal, and died like a worm... "So did Margaret, who could have been a poet. In our time, such efforts can always push a wheel forward. But at that time, how could her wild, abundant and uncultured wisdom be tamed or refined enough to be used by human beings? It just gushed out, flowed wantonly, and created a torrent of verse and prose, poetry and philosophy in a disorderly way, solidified in the unknown quarto or folio. Someone should have handed her a microscope and let her hold it. She should have been taught to look up at the stars and think scientifically. Her intelligence was developed in solitude and freedom. No one stopped her or taught her, only the flattery of professors and the ridicule of the court. Egerton Bridges complained about her vulgarity - "unexpectedly from a woman who came from a famous family and grew up in a big house". She kept herself alone in Welbeck. Think about Margaret Cavendish. What a lonely and gorgeous picture will come to mind! It's like a giant cucumber growing in the garden, drowning roses and carnations, making them breathless and suffocating. This woman once wrote that "the most educated woman is the most civilized woman", but she wasted her time on scribbling nonsense. She became more and more confused and stupid, so that people crowded around her carriage to watch when she was traveling. What a waste. Apparently, this crazy Duchess has been treated as an old witch to frighten those smart girls. At this time, I remembered that Dorothy Osborne had written to Temple about the Duchess' new work. I put the Duchess's book aside and opened Dorothy's collection of letters. "Sure enough, the poor woman is a little insane. Otherwise, how could she be so absurd and brave to write books and poems? Even if I couldn't sleep for two weeks, I wouldn't do so."

These lines were justly praised by

Mr. Murray. It is said that Pope wrote down and borrowed these words in his poems: Now, the narcissus has defeated the weak mind; We were in a deep coma under the fragrant pain. It is a pity that a woman who can write such poems, who is so devoted to nature and thinking, has to write anger and pain. But how can she be inferior to this? When I think of those sarcasm and ridicule, flattery from flatterers, and suspicion from professional poets, I can't help asking myself this question. She must have locked herself in a country room to write, and was tortured by worries and pain in her heart. Although her husband was considerate to her, her married life was perfect. I said, "Presumably," because if anyone wants to know about Mrs. Winchelsea's life, as usual, we will find that we almost know nothing about her. She suffered from depression, which we can at least tell a bit of the truth, because she told us that when she was depressed, she imagined: my poetry was slandered and my actions were speculated; This is a stupid futility, or a arrogant mistake. As far as we know, such a reproachful act is nothing but a harmless stroll in the field and a reverie in my heart: my hand likes to pursue uniqueness and rarity, deviates from the smooth road and does not walk the main road, and how can the faded silk thread embroider every bit of the rose.

Naturally, if this is her pleasure and habit, it will inevitably make people laugh. It is said that Pope or Guy satirized her as "a graffiti nerd". It is also said that she once laughed at Guy, so she offended him. She said his "Trivia" showed that "he is better suited to carry sedan chairs than to sit on them." However, Mr. Murray said it was just "gossip" and "boring". But this time, I don't agree, because I think that even if there is only gossip, more is better, so I can do a lot to find or piece together a certain image of this sad lady. She likes to walk in the fields and often has some fantastic ideas. She is so sharp and thoughtless about "boring housework". But, Mr. Murray said, she had become disorganized. Her talent is full of weeds and tangled by thorns, which can no longer bloom the original unique and graceful brilliance. So I put her poetry collection back on the bookshelf and turned to another great lady, the Duchess of Newcastle, who was silly and dreamy all day but loved by Lamb. She was older than Mrs. Winchell, but she was also a contemporary. They are very different from each other, but they are both nobles and have no children. They are both married to the best husbands. Both of them are full of enthusiasm for poetry, and they are haggard for the same reason. Open the book of the Duchess and see the same burning anger, "Women live like bats or owls, work like livestock, die like worms..."

She lived like an eagle, worked like an animal, and died like a worm... "So did Margaret, who could have been a poet. In our time, such efforts can always push a wheel forward. But at that time, how could her wild, abundant and uncultured wisdom be tamed or refined enough to be used by human beings? It just gushed out, flowed wantonly, and created a torrent of verse and prose, poetry and philosophy in a disorderly way, solidified in the unknown quarto or folio. Someone should have handed her a microscope and let her hold it. She should have been taught to look up at the stars and think scientifically. Her intelligence was developed in solitude and freedom. No one stopped her or taught her, only the flattery of professors and the ridicule of the court. Egerton Bridges complained about her vulgarity - "unexpectedly from a woman who came from a famous family and grew up in a big house". She kept herself alone in Welbeck. Think about Margaret Cavendish. What a lonely and gorgeous picture will come to mind! It's like a giant cucumber growing in the garden, drowning roses and carnations, making them breathless and suffocating. This woman once wrote that "the most educated woman is the most civilized woman", but she wasted her time on scribbling nonsense. She became more and more confused and stupid, so that people crowded around her carriage to watch when she was traveling. What a waste. Apparently, this crazy Duchess has been treated as an old witch to frighten those smart girls. At this time, I remembered that Dorothy Osborne had written to Temple about the Duchess' new work. I put the Duchess's book aside and opened Dorothy's collection of letters. "Sure enough, the poor woman is a little insane. Otherwise, how could she be so absurd and brave to write books and poems? Even if I couldn't sleep for two weeks, I wouldn't do so."