But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child?

Anne Bradstreet

Huntress, fill my pleading glass !
Let this marksman’s blood be merry.
Whether we shoot hind or ass,
Hail our wet preliminary.

Having brought to birth such brave quadruplets,
Let us toast the midwife with our couplets.

Sweet Diana pours her rounds:
Tawny Port and Shooting Sherry.
Hares now flee the baying hounds
For their country sanctuary.

Thine the night, oh bright and savage huntress;
Lead us to the quarry, chaste Artemis.

Conejito, hide yourself
From the charging adversary
Who would change your pelt for pelf;
(All close shaves are cautionary).

Forgive our clanging gong and sounding brass;
They serve to drive the quarry from the grass.

Healing balm: such sporting frolic,
Dares us to stay sedentary;
Banishing our melancholic
State, her bright apothecary!

Wild huntress, let us know you as the Greeks
And quiver as our heart your arrow seeks.

Toast we now the careless hunt;
Spoonerists wax luminary.
Visions of the hairless cunt
Make my lay discretionary.

Allegory of DIANA, Goddess of the Hunt

FAREWELL

ye POETS, SWAINS and MUSES

Thus ends National Poetry Writing Month
  I bid you all fair Adieu.
Trip away, make no stay / Meet me all by break of day . . .