Poems by Anne Bradstreet

for "Double Bondage: Puritan/Woman" on Study Guide

(see also pp. 58-59 of your textbook)

Prologue

1

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,

Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,

For my mean Pen are too superior things;

Or how they all, or each their dates have run,

Let Poets and Historians set these forth.

My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.

2

But when my wond'ring eyes and envious heart

Great Bartas' sugar'd lines do but read o'er,

Fool, I do grudge the Muses did not part

'Twixt him and me that over-fluent store.

A Bartas can do what a Bartas will

But simple I according to my skill.

3

From School-boy's tongue no Rhet'ric we expect,

Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,

Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect.

My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings,

And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,

'Cause Nature made it so irreparable.

4

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greek

Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain.

By Art he gladly found what he did seek,

A full requital of his striving pain.

Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure:

A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

5

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue

Who says my hand a needle better fits.

A Poet's Pen all scorn I should thus wrong,

For such despite they cast on female wits.

If what I do prove well, it won't advance,

They'll say it's stol'n, or else it was by chance.

6

But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,

Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine

And poesy made Calliope's own child?

So 'mongst the rest they placed the Arts divine,

But this weak knot they will full soon untie.

The Greeks did nought but play the fools and lie.

7

Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.

Men have precedency and still excel;

It is but vain unjustly to wage war.

Men can do best, and Women know it well.

Preeminence in all and each is yours;

Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.

8

And oh ye high flown quills that soar the skies,

And ever with your prey still catch your praise,

If e'er you deign these lowly lines your eyes,

Give thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no Bays.

This mean and unrefined ore of mine

Will make your glist'ring gold but more to shine.

Composition Date:

ca. 1643-47

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,

Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,

Who thee abroad, exposed 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 washed thy face, but more defects I saw,

And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,

Yet still thou run'st 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 asked, say, thou hadst none:

And for thy mother, she alas is poor.

Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.