Prologue An Electronic Edition Anne Bradstreet1612-1672 Header creation by Ralph Bauer Encoded by Ann Hanlon 5 kb bradstreet_prologue.xmlMaryland Institute for Technology in the Humanities (MITH)
University of Maryland College Park
April 2, 2003

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 The Works of Anne Bradstreet in Prose and Verse. Edited by John Harvard Ellis. (Charlestown: A. E. Cutter, 1867)

This text was first published in 1678 in Several Poems.

This electronic text was prepared from and proofed against The Works of Anne Bradstreet in Prose and Verse. Edited by John Harvard Ellis. (Charlestown: A. E. Cutter, 1867). All preliminaries and notes have been omitted except those for which the author is responsible and those in which editorial notes indicate significant textual variations. All editorial notes have been omitted except for those which indicate significant textual variations. Line and paragraph numbers contained in the source text have been retained. In cases where the source text displays no numbers, numbers are automatically generated. In the header, personal names have been regularized according to the Library of Congress authority files as "Last Name, First Name" for the REG attribute and "First Name Last Name" for the element value. Names have not been regularized in the body of the text.

 English Poetry Lyrical Verse 1650-1700New_EnglandWomenAuthorship The Prologue. TO sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,For my mean pen are too superiour things:Or how they all, or each their dates have runLet Poets and Historians set these forth,My obscure Lines shall not so dim their worth.But when my wondring eyes and envious heartGreat Bartas sugar'd lines, do but read o're Fool I do grudg the Muses did not part'Twixt him and me that overfluent store;A Bartas can, do what a Bartas willBut simple I according to my skill.From school-boyes tongue no rhet'rick we expectNor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,Nor perfect beauty, where's a main defect:My foolish, broken, blemish'd Muse so singsAnd this to mend, alas, no Art is able,'Cause nature, made it so irreparable.Nor can I, like that fluent sweet tongu'd Greek,Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plainBy Art he gladly found what he did seekA full requital of his, striving painArt can do much, but this maxime's most sureA weak or wounded brain admits no cure.I am obnoxious to each carping tongueWho says my hand a needle better fits,A Poets 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'l say it's stoln, or else it was by chance.But sure the Antique Greeks were far more mildElse of our Sexe, why feigned they those NineAnd 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 & lye.Let Greeks be Greeks, and women what they areMen have precedency and still excell,It is but vain unjustly to wage warre; Men can do best, and women know it wellPreheminence in all and each is yours;Yet grant some small acknowledgement of ours.And oh ye high flown quills that soar the Skies,And ever with your prey still catch your praise,If e'er you daigne these lowly lines your eyesGive Thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no bayes,This mean and unrefined ure of mineWill make your glistring gold, but more to shine.