From Wormwood To Verdure Poem by Douglas Scotney

Out of intrigue, not
of nothing else to do,
I dipped into
a satire by John Wilmot.

Cloe in the country
wants from Artemisa in the town
a letter in verse
of the city's goings down.

'What could be worse
than me writing verse? '
writes A in humility,
'I'd rather ride astride and fight.
I mean, look at the male wits
it has wrecked dear C.
As a poet you're misread, thought mad,
tall-poppy-syndromed
and if a woman,
as a whore thought nigh as bad.'

Nevertheless she sets to:
about intrigues of love she'd fain forget
for how they've ruined Love;
about a 'lemmon Pill'
correcting a breath-enough-to-kill;
about much more,
150 lines more,
about man as wit and fool,
woman as revenger and whore.

By the end she says,
'I'm so into it, Cloe, '
and
'There's at least a volume to go.'