Like a corset in the 16th century’s choking embrace,
Lived a poet named Isabella, known not for her place.
With a heart as pure as a countryside’s clear brook,
She wandered through life with a unique outlook.

Caring not for dandy notions, society’s hypocritical claim,
Nor the whispers of illegitimacy that defamed her name.
In the embrace of the city, she found her retreat,
The beauty of London, her life’s heartbeat.

She found solace in the wonder of the bustle so vast,
Of the surrounding bedlam, from first to last.
She often wandered the streets so grand,
Where shuffling steps and hooves made a band.

A most unconventional woman, of unique diction
printed poems in books of no great distinction
of a Cheshire family, settled on a small estate
near Nantwich, I am told, at Coole Pilate.

One fateful day, I ideate she ventured into the trees,
to exercise her rhetoric, stirred by a gentle breeze
A path unbroken she found, a perfect ambuscade,
For someone seeking solitude in a literary serenade.

I like to think forests became her cherished space,
Where rustling leaves and chirping birds set the pace.
Or among the trees of brick and stone, the flattering charm,
The buzzing, stinging bees, apart from life’s alarm.

One fateful day, I imagine, as she ventured deep within,
A hidden path she stumbled upon, a secret din.
Unbeknownst to her, a group of rapscallions plotted,
An ambush in the shadows, their intentions besotted.

Or -be-knownst to her, rogues schemed with glee,
Hoping to humiliate and drive her away, you see.
As Isabella walked along, a sudden tempest unfurled,
The roisterers, cruel and crude, challenged her world.

An ambuscade, they planned in shadows to surprise,
Ambush her spirit, dim her courageous skies.
As Isabella journeyed along that hidden lane,
The boisterous reveler burst forth, in cruel disdain.

“Avaunt! common wench!” they cried,
Face twisted with malice, their intentions belied.
Yet Isabella stood firm, not easily swayed,
Her spirit, undaunted, refused to evade.

“Go away, wanton dame!” they jeered,
Their face twisted, their intent very clear.
But Isabella, her courage fierce and true,
Refused to flee from this ruffian of the crew.

With a defiant spirit, she met their cruel gaze,
Her courage burned bright, like the sun’s golden rays.
“I shall not be ambushed, your insults will not stick,
Though baseborn, I’m no strumpet, I assure you, quick!

With a defiant spirit, she stood her ground,
In the midst of the trap, she stood, courage, unbound.
“I shall not be scuppered by the likes of you,” she cried,
“I may be common, but I’m no trollop to be belied.

Isabella had a wit as raw as London’s trench brooks,
meandering through city streets, like print in books.
She cared not for coxcomb notions high,
Nor the whispers of status that flew by.

Her words, like a lion’s roar, penned in ink, fierce and strong,
Struck the rapscallions, made them remember their wrong.
Her words, filled with resolve, struck a chord so deep,
yet through the corruptions in print, her secrets they’d keep.

and though they slinked away, their tails ‘twixt their legs,
some injustice, foiled by Isabella, yet her spirit courageously begs,
for redemption and a purse, enough to buy some meat,
Isabella’s indomitable spirit, the unworthy man’s defeat.

In her heart, did she know that her words continue to grow?
Isabella’s spirit, like London’s, is as pure as the gutters flow.
No modern notions, nor vile confinement of her literary art,
Can dim the radiance of her brave, fighting heart.

The beauty of this woman, now lost to the land,
Are mine and yours to cherish, in a poet’s gentle hand.
No one shall take away her memory, that is my decree,
For, in this world of literary wonders, she finds sanctuary.

Her body now might lay in a verdant forest deep,
or under a cold stone, but none shall disturb her sleep.
cherish the wonders, she left us consolation so sweet,
And with unwavering resolve, her stand I’ll repeat.

In the 16th century, her name now in history’s scroll,
Isabella Whitney is a poet with an unyielding soul.
Her courage and her verse, like Thames’s gentle flow,
A testament to a spirit that refused to bow low.