UPON THE AUTHOR.
'T were extreme folly should I dare attempt
To praise this Author's worth with compliment.
None but herself must dare commend her parts
Whose sublime brain's the synopsis of arts.
Nature and skill here both in one agree
To frame this masterpiece of poetry.
False Fame, belie their sex no more.
Surpass, or parallel, the best of man.
ANOTHER TO MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET,
AUTHOR OF THIS POEM.
I've read your poem, lady, and admire
Your sex to such a pitch should e'er aspire.
Go on to write; continue to relate ✓
New histories of monarchy and state;
And what the Romans to their poets gave
Be sure such honor and esteem you'll have.
So Bartas-like thy fine spun poems been,
That Bartas' name will prove an epicene.
UPON MRS. ANNE BRADSTREET,
HER POEMS, ETC.
Madam, twice through the Muses' grove I walked;
Under your blissful bowers I shrouding there,
It seemed with nymphs of Helicon I talked,
For there those sweet-lipped Sisters sporting were.
Apollo with his sacred lute sat by.
On high they made their heavenly sonnets fly,
Posies around they strewed of sweetest poesy.
Twice have I drunk the nectar of your lines,
Which high sublimed my mean-born phantasy.
Flushed with these streams of your Maronean wines,
Above myself rapt to an ecstasy,
Methought I was upon Mount Hybla's top,
There where I might those fragrant flowers lop Whence do sweet odors flow and honey-spangles drop.
To Venus' shrine no altars raised are,
Nor venomed shafts from painted quiver fly;
Nor wanton doves of Aphrodite's car
Are fluttering there, nor here forlornly lie
Lorn paramours; nor chatting birds tell news
How sage Apollo Daphne hot pursues,
Or stately Jove himself is wont to haunt the stews.
Nor barking satyrs breathe, nor dreary clouds,
Exhaled from Styx, their dismal drops distil
Within these fairy flowery fields, nor shrouds
The screeching night-raven with his shady quill;
But lyric strings here Orpheus nimbly hits,
Arion on his saddled dolphin sits,
Chanting as every humor, age, and season fits.
Here silver swans with nightingales set spells
Which sweetly charm the traveler, and raise
Earth's earthéd monarchs from their hidden cells,
And to appearance summon lapsed days.
There heavenly air becalms the swelling frays,
And fury fell of elements allays
By paying every one due tribute of his praise.
This seemed the site of all those verdant vales
And purléd springs whereat the nymphs do play,
With lofty hills where poets rear their tales
To heavenly vaults which heavenly sound repay
By echo's sweet rebound. Here ladies kiss,
Circling, nor songs, nor dance's circle miss;
But whilst those sirens sung, I sunk in sea of bliss.
Thus weltering in delight, my virgin mind.
Admits a rape; truth still lies undescried.
It's singular that plural seemed, I find;
'T was Fancy's glass alone that multiplied;
Nature with Art so closely did combine,
I thought I saw the Muses' treble trine,
Which proved your lonely Muse superior to the Nine.
Your only hand those poesies did compose;
Your head the source whence all those springs did flow; Your voice whence change's sweetest notes arose, Your feet that kept the dance alone, I trow.
Then vail your bonnets, poetasters all,
Strike lower amain, and at these humbly fall,
And deem yourselves advanced to be her pedestal.
Should all with lowly congees laurels bring,
Waste Flora's magazine to find a wreath,
Or Peneus' banks, 't were too mean offering.
Your Muse a fairer garland doth bequeath
To guard your fairer front: here 't is your name
Shall stand emmarbled; this your little frame
Shall great colossus be, to your eternal fame.
I'll please myself, though I myself disgrace.
What errors here be found are in Errata's place.
TO HER MOST HONORED FATHER
THOMAS DUDLEY, ESQ.,
THESE HUMBLY PRESENTED.
Dear Sir, of late delighted with the sight (T.D. On Of your four Sisters clothed in black and
Of fairer dames the sun ne'er saw the face,
Though made a pedestal for Adam's race.
Their worth so shines in these rich lines you show,
Their parallels to find I scarcely know.
To climb their climes I have nor strength nor skill;
To mount so high requires an eagle's quill.
Yet view thereof did cause my thoughts to soar
My lowly pen might wait upon these four!
I bring my four times four, now meanly clad,
To do their homage unto yours, full glad:
Who for their age, their worth, and quality
Might seem of yours to claim precedency:
But by my humble hand thus rudely penned,
They are your bounden handmaids to attend.
These same are they from whom we being have;
These are of all the life, the nurse, the grave;
These are the hot, the cold, the moist, the dry,
That sink, that swim, that fill, that upwards fly;
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