Laura Cereta

I am a scholar and a pupil who has been lulled to sleep by the meagre fire of a mind too humble. I have been too much burned, and my injured mind has accumulated too much passion; for tormenting itself with the defending of our sex, my mind sighs, conscious of its obligation. For all things _ those deeply rooted inside us as well as those outside us _ are being laid at the door of our sex.In addition, I, who have always held virtue in high esteem and considered private things as secondary importance, shall wear down and exhaust my pen writing against those men who are garrulous and puffed up with false pride. I shall not fail to obstruct tenaciously their treacherous snares. And I shall strive a war of vengeance against the notorious abuse of those who fill everything with noise, since armed with such abuse, certain insane and infamous men bark and bare their teeth in vicious wrath at the republic of women, so worthy of veneration.

The free mind, unafraid of labor, presses on to attain the good.

But as to your writing me that I don__ love you very much, I don__ know whether you__e saying this in earnest or whether I should realise that you__e joking with me. Still, what you say disturbs me. You are measuring a very healthy expression of a wife__ loyalty by the standard of the insincere flattery of well-worn phrases. But I shall love you, my husband. What does it mean to you that you reassure me with those trivial little compliments? Do you want me to believe that you expect me to comb my hair in a stylish fashion for your homecoming? Or to feign adoring looks with a painted face? Let women without means, who worry and have no confidence in their virtue, flutter their eyelashes and play games to gain favour with their husbands. This is the adulation of a fox and the birdlime of deceitful bird hunting. I don__ want to have to buy you at such a price. I__ not a person who lays more stock in words than duty. I am truly your Laura, whose soul is the same one you in turn had hoped for.