Ercury fhew'd Apollo, Bartas Book,
Minerva this, and wisht him well to look,
And tell uprightly which did which excell,
He view'd and view'd, and vow'd he could not tel.
They bid him Hemisphear his mouldy nose,
With's crackt leering glaffes, for it would pose
The best brains he had in's old pudding-pan,
Sex weigh'd, which beft, the Woman, or the Man?
He peer'd and por'd, & glar'd, & faid for wore,
I'me even as wife now, as I was before:
They both 'gan laugh, and said it was no mar'l
The Auth'ress was a right Du Bartas Girle.
Good footh quoth the old Don, tell ye me fo,
I muse whither at length thefe Girls will go;
It half revives my chil froft-bitten blood,
To fee a Woman once, do ought that's good;
And chode by Chaucers Boots, and Homers Furrs,
Let Men look to't, least Women wear the Spurrs.
*This clergyman, well known as the eccentric author of "The Simple Cobbler of Agawam," had been a neighbor of Mrs. Bradstreet in Ipswich. He returned to England in 1647, and may have been concerned in the publication of her poems.
my dear Sifter, the Author of
thefe Poems.
Though moft that know me, dare (I think) affirm
I ne're was born to do a Poet harm,
Yet when I read your pleasant witty strains,
It wrought fo ftrongly on my addle brains;
That though my verfe be not fo finely fpun,
And fo (like yours) cannot fo neatly run,
Yet am I willing, with upright intent,
To fhew my love without a complement.
There needs no painting to that comely face,
That in its native beauty hath fuch grace;
What I (poor filly I) prefix therefore,
Can but do this, make yours admir'd the more;
And if but only this, I do attain
Content, that my difgrace may be your gain.
If women, I with women may compare,
Your works are folid, others weak as Air;
Some Books of Women I have heard of late,
Perused fome, fo witlefs, intricate,
So void of fenfe, and truth, as if to erre
Were only wifht (acting above their sphear)
And all to get, what (filly Souls) they lack,
Efteem to be the wifeft of the pack;
Though (for your fake) to fome this be permitted, [vii]
To print, yet wish I many better witted;
Their vanity make this to be enquired,
If Women are with wit and fence inspired:
Yet when your Works fhall come to publick view,
"Twill be affirm'd, 'twill be confirm'd by you:
And I, when seriously I had revolved
What you had done, I presently refolved,
Theirs was the Perfons, not the Sexes failing,
And therefore did be-speak a modest vailing.
You have acutely in Eliza's ditty,*
Acquitted Women, else I might with pitty,
Have wisht them all to womens Works to look,
And never more to meddle with their book.
What you have done, the Sun fhall witness bear,
That for a womans Work 'tis very rare;
And if the Nine, vouchsafe the Tenth a place,
I think they rightly may yield you that grace.
But least I should exceed, and too much love,
Should too too much endear'd affection move,
To fuper-adde in praises, I fhall cease,
Least while I please myself I should displease
The longing Reader, who may chance complain,
And fo requite my love with deep difdain;
That I your filly Servant, ftand i' th' Porch,
Lighting your Sun-light, with my blinking Torch;
Hindring his minds content, his sweet repofe,
Which your delightful Poems do disclose,
* See her Elegy "In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess Queen Elizabeth of Happy Memory."
When once the Cafkets op'ned; yet to you
Let this be added, then I'le bid adieu,
If you fhall think, it will be to your fhame
To be in print, then I must bear the blame:
If't be a fault, 'tis mine, 'tis fhame that might
Deny fo fair an Infant of its right,
To look abroad; I know your modest mind,
How
you will blush, complain, 'tis too unkind:
To force a womans birth, provoke her pain,
Expofe her labours to the Worlds difdain.
I know you'l fay, you do defie that mint,
That ftampt you thus, to be a fool in print.
'Tis true, it doth not now so neatly stand,
As if 'twere pollifht with your own fweet hand;
'Tis not fo richly deckt, fo trimly tir'd,
Yet it is such as justly is admir'd.
If it be folly, 'tis of both, or neither,
Both you and I, we'l both be fools together;
And he that fayes, 'tis foolish, (if my word
May fway) by my confent fhall make the third,
I dare out-face the worlds difdain for both,
If you alone profess you are not wroth;
Yet if you are, a Womans wrath is little,
When thousands else admire you in each Tittle.
*Both this and the address to the reader were undoubtedly written by the Rev. John Woodbridge, first minister of Andover. He was Mrs. Bradstreet's brother-in-law, having married her sister Mercy. He sailed for England in 1647, and was there when the first edition of these poems was published. A more particular account of him is given in the Introduction.
Vpon the Author; by
a known Friend.
Now I believe Tradition, which doth call
The Mufes, Virtues, Graces, Females all;
Only they are not nine, eleven nor three;
Our Auth'refs proves them but one unity.
Mankind take up fome blushes on the score;
Monopolize perfection no more;
In your own Arts, confefs your felves out-done,
The Moon hath totally eclips'd the Sun,
Not with her fable Mantle muffling him;
But her bright filver makes his gold look dim:
Just as his beams force our pale lamps to wink,
And earthly Fires, within their afhes fhrink.
* These initials, which appeared for the first time in the second edition, are thought to be those of the Rev. Benjamin Woodbridge, D.D., brother of the Rev. John Woodbridge. He was born in England, and after having studied at Magdalen College, Oxford, came to join his brother, and some other relations, in this country. He entered Harvard College, and his name stands first on the list of graduates. He was among the first settlers of the town of Andover; but he soon returned to England, where he succeeded the Rev. William Twiss, D.D., as minister of Newbury, in
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