TO MY DEAR SISTER,
THE AUTHOR OF THESE POEMS.
Though most that know me dare, I think, affirm
I ne'er was born to do a poet harm,
Yet when I read your pleasant witty strains
It wrought so strongly on my addle brains
That though my verse be not so finely spun,
And so like yours cannot so neatly run,
Yet am I willing, with upright intent,
To show my love without a compliment.
There needs no painting to that comely face
That in its native beauty hath such grace.
What I, poor silly I, prefix, therefore,
Can but do this, make yours admired the more;
And if but only this, I do attain
Content that my disgrace may be your gain.
If women I with women may compare,
Your works are solid, others' weak as air.
Some books of women I have heard of late,
Perused some, so witless, intricate,
So void of sense and truth as if to err
Were only wished, acting above their sphere;
And all to get what, silly souls, they lack—
Esteem to be the wisest of the pack.
Though, for your sake, to some this be permitted
To print, yet wish I many better witted;
Their vanity makes this to be inquired,
If women are with wit and sense inspired.
Yet when your works shall come to public view,
'T will be affirmed, 't will be confirmed, by you.
And I, when seriously I had revolved
What you had done, I presently resolved
Theirs was the persons', not the sex's, failing,
And therefore did bespeak a modest vailing.
You have acutely, in Eliza's ditty,
Acquitted women, else I might with pity
Have wished them all to women's works to look,
And never more to meddle with their book.
What you have done the sun shall witness bear
That for a woman's work 't is very rare;
And if the Nine vouchsafe the Tenth a place,
I think they rightly may yield you that grace.
But lest I should exceed, and too much love
Should too too much endeared affection move
To superadd in praises, I shall cease,
Lest while I please myself I should displease
The longing reader, who may chance complain,
And so requite my love with deep disdain,
That I, your silly servant, stand in the porch,
Lighting your sunlight with my blinking torch;
Hindering his mind's content, his sweet repose,
Which your delightful poems do disclose
When once the casket's opened.
Let this be added, then I'll bid adieu:
you shall think it will be to your shame
To be in print, then I must bear the blame.
If it be a fault, 't is mine; 't is shame that might
Deny so fair an infant of its right
To look abroad. I know your modest mind:
How you will blush, complain 't is too unkind
To force a woman's birth, provoke her pain,
Expose her labors to the world's disdain.
I know you'll say you do defy that mint
That stamped you thus to be a fool in print.
'T is true, it doth not now so neatly stand
As if 't were polished with your own sweet hand;
'T is not so richly decked, so trimly attired;
Yet it is such as justly is admired.
If it be folly, 't is of both or neither:
Both you and I, we 'll both be fools together;
And he that says 't is foolish, if my word
May sway, by my consent shall make the third.
I dare outface the world's disdain for both
If you alone profess you are not wroth.
Yet, if you are, a woman's wrath is little
When thousands else admire you in each tittle.
UPON THE AUTHOR.
BY A KNOWN FRIEND.
Now I believe tradition, which doth call
The Muses, Virtues, Graces, females all;
Only they are not nine, eleven, nor three —
Our Authoress proves them but one unity.
Mankind, take up some blushes on the score;
Monopolize perfection no more;
In your own arts confess yourselves outdone:
The moon hath totally eclipsed the sun-
Not with her sable mantle muffling him,
But her bright silver makes his gold look dim:
Just as his beams force our pale lamps to wink,
And earthly fires within their ashes shrink.
I cannot wonder at Apollo now,
That he with female laurel crowned his brow: That made him witty! Had I leave to choose, My verse should be a page unto your Muse.
IN PRAISE OF THE AUTHOR, MISTRESS
ANNE BRADSTREET, VIRTUE'S TRUE
AND LIVELY PATTERNn, wife of the
WORSHIPFUL SIMON BRADSTREET,
ESQ.; AT PRESENT RESIDING IN THE
OCCIDENTAL PARTS OF THE WORLD
IN AMERICA, ALIAS NOVA-ANGLIA.
What golden splendent star is this so bright,
One thousand miles twice told, both day and night,
From the orient first sprung, now from the west
That shines, swift-wingéd Phoebus and the rest
Of all Jove's fiery flames surmounting far
As doth each planet every falling star?-
By whose divine and lucid light most clear
Nature's dark secret mysteries appear,
Heaven's, earth's, admired wonders, noble acts
Of kings and princes, most heroic facts,
And whate'er else in darkness seemed to die;
Revives all things so obvious now to the eye
That he who these its glittering rays views o'er
Shall see what was done in all the world before.
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