A
poem by
Anne Bradstreet.
Thou ill-formed
offspring of my
feeble brain,
Who after
birth didst by my
side remain,
Till snatched from thence by
friends, less wist than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to
public view,
Made thee
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 affaction 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 streched 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 homespun
cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst
vulgars may'st 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 the door