Anne Bradstreet(ea. 1612–1672)
The Author to Her Book
T h o u ill-formed offspring of my f e e b l e brain,
W h o after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
M a d e t h e e in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
W h e r e errors were not l e s s e n e d (all may judge).
At thy return my b l u s h i n g was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) s h o u l d m o t h e r call,
I cast t h e e by as o n e unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I w a s h e d thy face, but m o r e d e f e c t s I saw,
A n d rubbing off a spot still m a d e a flaw.
I s t r e t c h e d thy joints to m a k e t h e e e v e n feet,7
Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet; 0appropriate
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But n o u g h t save h o m e s p u n c l o t h i' th' h o u s e I find.
In this array rnongst vulgars 0 may'st thou roam.common people
In critic's hands beware thou dost not come,
A n d take thy way w h e r e yet t h o u art not k n o w n ;
If for thy father asked, say t h o u hadst n o n e ;
A n d for thy m o t h e r , s h e alas is poor,
W h i c h c a u s e d her thus t o s e n d t h e e out o f door.