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Poem by Anne Bradstreet


The Author to Her Book


Thou ill-formd offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposd to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washd thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou runst more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun Cloth, i th house I find.
In this array, mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Critics hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which causd her thus to send thee out of door.



Anne Bradstreet


Anne Bradstreet's other poems:
  1. My Thankfull Heart with Glorying Tongue
  2. In Reference to Her Children, 23 June 1659
  3. To Her Most Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Esq; These Humbly Presented
  4. The Four Ages of Man
  5. Deliverance from a Fit of Fainting


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