 | The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse |  |
vi
To my dear Sister, the Author of these Poems.
Though most 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 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 shew my love without a complement.
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 admir'd the more;
And if but only this, I do attain
Content, that my disgrace may be your gain.
I ne're 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 shew my love without a complement.
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 admir'd 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 erre
Were only wisht (acting above their sphear)
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 make this to be enquired,
If Women are with wit and sence inspired:
Yet when your Works shall 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 resolved,
Theirs was the Persons, 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 shall 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.
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 erre
Were only wisht (acting above their sphear)
And all to get, what (silly Souls) they lack,
Esteem to be the wisest of the pack;
vii
To print, yet wish I many better witted;
Their vanity make this to be enquired,
If Women are with wit and sence inspired:
Yet when your Works shall 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 resolved,
Theirs was the Persons, 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 shall 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 super-adde in praises, I shall cease,
Least 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 i'th' Porch,
Lighting your Sun-light, with my blinking Torch;
Hindring his minds content, his sweet repose,
Which your delightful Poems do disclose,
When once the Caskets op'ned; yet to you
Let this be added, then I'le bid adieu,
If you shall think, it will be to your shame
To be in print, then I must bear the blame:
If't be a fault, 'tis mine, 'tis shame that might
Deny so 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,
Expose her labours to the Worlds disdain.
I know you'l say, you do defie that mint,
That stampt you thus, to be a fool in print.
'Tis true, it doth not now so neatly stand,
As if 'twere pollisht with your own sweet hand;
'Tis not so richly deckt, so 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 sayes, 'tis foolish, (if my word
May sway) by my consent shall make the third,
I dare out-face the worlds disdain 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.
Should too too much endear'd affection move,
To super-adde in praises, I shall cease,
Least 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 i'th' Porch,
Lighting your Sun-light, with my blinking Torch;
Hindring his minds content, his sweet repose,
Which your delightful Poems do disclose,
viii
Let this be added, then I'le bid adieu,
If you shall think, it will be to your shame
To be in print, then I must bear the blame:
If't be a fault, 'tis mine, 'tis shame that might
Deny so 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,
Expose her labours to the Worlds disdain.
I know you'l say, you do defie that mint,
That stampt you thus, to be a fool in print.
'Tis true, it doth not now so neatly stand,
As if 'twere pollisht with your own sweet hand;
'Tis not so richly deckt, so 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 sayes, 'tis foolish, (if my word
May sway) by my consent shall make the third,
I dare out-face the worlds disdain 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.
I. W.
| The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse | |