 | The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse |  |
ix
Vpon the Author; by a known Friend.
Now I believe Tradition, which doth callThe Muses, Virtues, Graces, Females all;
Only they are not nine, eleven nor three;
Our Auth'ress proves them but one unity.
Mankind take up some blushes on the score;
Monopolize perfection no more;
In your own Arts, confess your selves out-done,
The Moon hath totally eclips'd 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.
B. W.
| The works of Anne Bradstreet in prose and verse | |