Poems and Prose of the First American Poet

Anne Bradstreet (c. 1612–1672) was the first published poet in the American colonies. Born in Northampton, England, she emigrated to Massachusetts in 1630 with the Puritan migration. Her brother-in-law published her poems without her knowledge in London in 1650 as The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America — the first book of poetry by a resident of the New World. Her later, more personal poems, published posthumously in 1678, are considered her finest work.

The texts here are drawn from the public domain editions of her collected works. Bradstreet's poetry moves between Puritan piety and tender domestic observation, and her voice remains one of the most distinctive in early English literature.

The Author to Her Book

Thou ill-form’d offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain,

Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, expos’d to publick view,

Made thee in raggs, halting to th’ press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg).

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 affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could:

I wash’d thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.

I stretched thy joynts to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run’st more hobling then is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun Cloth, i’ th’ house I find.

In this array ’mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
In Criticks hands, beware thou dost not come; And take thy way where yet thou art not known, If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none:
And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,
Which caus’d her thus to send thee out of door.

Before the Birth of One of Her Children

All things within this fading world hath end, Adversity doth still our joyes attend; No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet, But with death’s parting blow is sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,
A common thing, yet oh inevitable.
How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend, How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,

We are both ignorant, yet love bids me
These farewell lines to recommend to thee, That when that knot’s untied that made us one,

I may seem thine, who in effect am none.
And if I see not half my dayes that’s due, What nature would, God grant to yours and you; The many faults that well you know I have Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave; If any worth or virtue were in me,
Let that live freshly in thy memory
And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms, Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.

And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me, These o protect from step Dames injury.

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse, With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse; And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake, Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.

By Night when Others Soundly Slept

By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow’d his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry Soul he fill’d with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.

What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I’ll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Loue him to Eternity.

Contemplations

1
Sometime now past in the Autumnal Tide,
When Phoebus wanted but one hour to bed, The trees all richly clad, yet void of pride, Were gilded o’re by his rich golden head.
Their leaves and fruits seem’d painted but was true Of green, of red, of yellow, mixed hew,

Rapt were my senses at this delectable view.

2
I wist not what to wish, yet sure thought I, If so much excellence abide below, How excellent is he that dwells on high?
Whose power and beauty by his works we know.
Sure he is goodness, wisdom, glory, light, That hath this under world so richly dight.

More Heaven than Earth was here, no winter and no night.

3
Then on a stately Oak I cast mine Eye,
Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem’d to aspire; How long since thou wast in thine Infancy?

Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire, Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born?

Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn, If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.

4
Then higher on the glistering Sun I gaz’d, Whose beams was shaded by the leafy Tree.

The more I look’d, the more I grew amaz’d And softly said, what glory’s like to thee?

Soul of this world, this Universe’s Eye, No wonder some made thee a Deity:

Had I not better known (alas) the same had I.

5
Thou as a Bridegroom from thy Chamber rushes And as a strong man joys to run a race.

The morn doth usher thee with smiles and blushes.

The Earth reflects her glances in thy face.

Birds, insects, Animals with Vegative,

Thy heat from death and dullness doth revive:

And in the darksome womb of fruitful nature dive.

6
Thy swift Annual and diurnal Course,
Thy daily straight and yearly oblique path, Thy pleasing fervour, and thy scorching force, All mortals here the feeling knowledge hath.
Thy presence makes it day, thy absence night, Quaternal seasons caused by thy might:

Hail Creature, full of sweetness, beauty, and delight.

7

Art thou so full of glory that no Eye

Hath strength thy shining Rays once to behold?

And is thy splendid Throne erect so high?

As, to approach it, can no earthly mould.

How full of glory then must thy Creator be?

Who gave this bright light luster unto thee:

Admir’d, ador’d for ever be that Majesty.

8
Silent alone where none or saw, or heard, In pathless paths I lead my wand’ring feet.

My humble Eyes to lofty Skies I rear’d

To sing some Song my mazed Muse thought meet.

My great Creator I would magnifie,

That nature had thus decked liberally:

But Ah and Ah again, my imbecility!

9
I heard the merry grasshopper then sing, The black clad Cricket bear a second part.

They kept one tune and played on the same string, Seeming to glory in their little Art.

Shall creatures abject thus their voices raise?
And in their kind resound their maker’s praise:
Whilst I, as mute, can warble forth no higher layes.

10
When present times look back to Ages past And men in being fancy those are dead,

It makes things gone perpetually to last And calls back months and years that long since fled

It makes a man more aged in conceit,
Than was Methuselah or’s grand-sire great:
While of their persons and their acts his mind doth treat.

11
Sometimes in Eden fair he seems to be,
See glorious Adam there made Lord of all, Fancies the Apple, dangle on the Tree, That turn’d his Sovereign to a naked thrall, Who like a miscreant’s driven from that place To get his bread with pain and sweat of face:
A penalty impos’d on his backsliding Race.

12
Here sits our Grandame in retired place, And in her lap her bloody Cain new born, The weeping Imp oft looks her in the face, Bewails his unknown hap and fate forlorn; His Mother sighs to think of Paradise,
And how she lost her bliss, to be more wise, Believing him that was, and is, Father of lyes.

13
Here Cain and Abel come to sacrifice,
Fruits of the Earth and Fatlings each do bring, On Abels gift the fire descends from Skies, But no such sign on false Cain’s offering; With sullen hateful looks he goes his wayes.

Hath thousand thoughts to end his brothers dayes, Upon whose blood his future good he hopes to raise.

14
There Abel keeps his sheep, no ill he thinks, His brother comes, then acts his fratricide.

The Virgin Earth of blood her first draught drinks, But since that time she often hath been cloy’d; The wretch with ghastly face and dreadful mind, Thinks each he sees will serve him in his kind,

Though none on Earth but kindred near then could he find.

15
Who fancies not his looks now at the Barr, His face like death, his heart with horror fraught,

Nor Male-factor ever felt like warr,
When deep despair with wish of life hath fought, Branded with guilt, and crusht with treble woes, A Vagabond to Land of Nod he goes.
A City builds, that wals might him secure from foes.

16
Who thinks not oft upon the Fathers ages.
Their long descent, how nephews sons they saw, The starry observations of those Sages, And how their precepts to their sons were law, How Adam sigh’d to see his Progeny,

Cloath’d all in his black, sinful Livery, Who neither guilt not yet the punishment could fly.

17
Our Life compare we with their length of dayes Who to the tenth of theirs doth now arrive?

And though thus short, we shorten many wayes, Living so little while we are alive; In eating, drinking, sleeping, vain delight So unawares comes on perpetual night, And puts all pleasures vain unto eternal flight.

18
When I behold the heavens as in their prime, And then the earth (though old) still clad in green, The stones and trees, insensible of time, Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen; If winter come, and greenness then do fade, A Spring returns, and they more youthfull made; But Man grows old, lies down, remains where once he’s laid.

19
By birth more noble than those creatures all, Yet seems by nature and by custom curs’d, No sooner born, but grief and care makes fall That state obliterate he had at first:

Nor youth, nor strength, nor wisdom spring again Nor habitations long their names retain, But in oblivion to the final day remain.

20
Shall I then praise the heavens, the trees, the earth Because their beauty and their strength last longer

Shall I wish there, or never to had birth, Because they’re bigger and their bodyes stronger?

Nay, they shall darken, perish, fade and dye, And when unmade, so ever shall they lye, But man was made for endless immortality.

21
Under the cooling shadow of a stately Elm Close sate I by a goodly Rivers side, Where gliding streams the Rocks did overwhelm; A lonely place, with pleasures dignifi’d.

I once that lov’d the shady woods so well, Now thought the rivers did the trees excel, And if the sun would ever shine, there would I dwell.

22
While on the stealing stream I fixt mine eye, Which to the long’d-for Ocean held its course,

I markt, nor crooks, nor rubs that there did lye Could hinder ought but still augment its force:

O happy Flood, quoth I, that holds thy race Till thou arrive at thy beloved place,

Nor is it rocks or shoals that can obstruct thy pace.

23
Nor is’t enough that thou alone may’st slide, But hundred brooks in thy cleer waves do meet, So hand in hand along with thee they glide To Thetis house, where all imbrace and greet:

Thou Emblem true of what I count the best, O could I lead my Rivolets to rest, So may we press to that vast mansion, ever blest.

24
Ye Fish which in this liquid Region ’bide That for each season have your habitation, Now salt, now fresh where you think best to glide To unknown coasts to give a visitation, In Lakes and ponds, you leave your numerous fry, So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,

You watry folk that know not your felicity.

25
Look how the wantons frisk to tast the air, Then to the colder bottome streight they dive,

Eftsoon to Neptun’s glassy Hall repair
To see what trade they, great ones, there do drive, Who forrage o’re the spacious sea-green field, And take the trembling prey before it yield, Whose armour is their scales, their spreading fins their shield.

26
While musing thus with contemplation fed, And thousand fancies buzzing in my brain, The sweet-tongu’d Philomel percht ore my head, And chanted forth a most melodious strain Which rapt me so with wonder and delight, I judg’d my hearing better than my sight, And wisht me wings with her a while to take my flight.

27
O merry Bird (said I) that fears no snares, That neither toyles nor hoards up in thy barn,

Feels no sad thoughts, nor cruciating cares To gain more good, or shun what might thee harm

Thy clothes ne’re wear, thy meat is every where, Thy bed a bough, thy drink the water cleer,

Reminds not what is past, nor whats to come dost fear.

28
The dawning morn with songs thou dost prevent, Sets hundred notes unto thy feathered crew, So each one tunes his pretty instrument, And warbling out the old, begin anew, And thus they pass their youth in summer season, Then follow thee into a better Region, Where winter’s never felt by that sweet airy legion.

29
Man at the best a creature frail and vain, In knowledge ignorant, in strength but weak,

Subject to sorrows, losses, sickness, pain, Each storm his state, his mind, his body break, From some of these he never finds cessation, But day or night, within, without, vexation,

Troubles from foes, from friends, from dearest, near’st Relation.

30
And yet this sinfull creature, frail and vain, This lump of wretchedness, of sin and sorrow,

This weather-beaten vessel wrackt with pain, Joys not in hope of an eternal morrow;

Nor all his losses, crosses and vexation, In weight, in frequency and long duration Can make him deeply groan for that divine Translation.

31
The Mariner that on smooth waves doth glide, Sings merrily and steers his Barque with ease, As if he had command of wind and tide,
And now becomes great Master of the seas; But suddenly a storm spoils all the sport, And makes him long for a more quiet port, Which ’gainst all adverse winds may serve for fort.

32
So he that faileth in this world of pleasure, Feeding on sweets, that never bit of th’ sowre,

That’s full of friends, of honour and of treasure, Fond fool, he takes this earth ev’n for heav’ns bower, But sad affliction comes and makes him see Here’s neither honour, wealth, nor safety; Only above is found all with security.

33
O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things, That draws oblivions curtains over kings, Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not, Their names without a Record are forgot, Their parts, their ports, their pomp’s all laid in th’ dust.
Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape times rust; But he whose name is grav’d in the white stone

Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.

A Dialogue between Old England and New

New England.
Alas, dear Mother, fairest Queen and best, With honour, wealth, and peace happy and blest,

What ails thee hang thy head, and cross thine arms, And sit i’ the dust to sigh these sad alarms?

What deluge of new woes thus over-whelm
The glories of thy ever famous Realm?
What means this wailing tone, this mournful guise?
Ah, tell thy Daughter; she may sympathize.

Old England.
Art ignorant indeed of these my woes,
Or must my forced tongue these griefs disclose, And must my self dissect my tatter’d state, Which Amazed Christendom stands wondering at?
And thou a child, a Limb, and dost not feel My weak’ned fainting body now to reel?

This physic-purging-potion I have taken

Will bring Consumption or an Ague quaking, Unless some Cordial thou fetch from high, Which present help may ease my malady.

If I decease, dost think thou shalt survive?

Or by my wasting state dost think to thrive?

Then weigh our case, if ‘t be not justly sad.

Let me lament alone, while thou art glad.

New England.
And thus, alas, your state you much deplore In general terms, but will not say wherefore.

What Medicine shall I seek to cure this woe, If th’ wound’s so dangerous, I may not know?

But you, perhaps, would have me guess it out.
What, hath some Hengist like that Saxon stout By fraud and force usurp’d thy flow’ring crown, Or by tempestuous Wars thy fields trod down?
Or hath Canutus, that brave valiant Dane, The regal peaceful Sceptre from thee ta’en?

Or is 't a Norman whose victorious hand

With English blood bedews thy conquered Land?

Or is ‘t intestine Wars that thus offend?

Do Maud and Stephen for the Crown contend?

Do Barons rise and side against their King, And call in Foreign aid to help the thing?

Must Edward be depos’d? Or is ‘t the hour That second Richard must be clapp’d i’ th’ Tower?

Or is it the fatal jar, again begun,
That from the red, white pricking Roses sprung?
Must Richmond’s aid the Nobles now implore To come and break the tushes of the Boar?

If none of these, dear Mother, what’s your woe?
Pray, do not fear Spain’s bragging Armado.
Doth your Ally, fair France, conspire your wrack, Or doth the Scots play false behind your back?

Doth Holland quit you ill for all your love?

Whence is this storm, from Earth or Heaven above?

Is ‘t drought, is ‘t Famine, or is ‘t Pestilence?

Dost feel the smart, or fear the consequence?

Your humble Child entreats you shew your grief.

Though Arms nor Purse she hath for your relief— Such is her poverty,—yet shall be found A suppliant for your help, as she is bound.

Old England.
I must confess some of those Sores you name My beauteous Body at this present maim, But foreign Foe nor feigned friend I fear, For they have work enough, thou knowest, elsewhere.

Nor is it Alcie’s son and Henry’s Daughter Whose proud contention cause this slaughter;

Nor Nobles siding to make John no King,
French Louis unjustly to the Crown to bring; No Edward, Richard, to lose rule and life,

Nor no Lancastrians to renew old strife; No Crook-backt Tyrant now usurps the Seat, Whose tearing tusks did wound, and kill, and threat.

No Duke of York nor Earl of March to soil Their hands in Kindred’s blood whom they did foil; No need of Tudor Roses to unite:

None knows which is the Red or which the White.

Spain’s braving Fleet a second time is sunk.

France knows how of my fury she hath drunk By Edward third and Henry fifth of fame; Her Lilies in my Arms avouch the same.

My Sister Scotland hurts me now no more, Though she hath been injurious heretofore.

What Holland is, I am in some suspense,
But trust not much unto his Excellence.
For wants, sure some I feel, but more I fear; And for the Pestilence, who knows how near?

Famine and Plague, two sisters of the Sword, Destruction to a Land doth soon afford.

They’re for my punishments ordain'd on high, Unless thy tears prevent it speedily.

But yet I answer not what you demand
To shew the grievance of my troubled Land.
Before I tell the effect I’ll shew the cause, Which are my sins—the breach of sacred Laws:

Idolatry, supplanter of a Nation,
With foolish superstitious adoration,
Are lik’d and countenanc’d by men of might, The Gospel is trod down and hath no right.

Church Offices are sold and bought for gain That Pope had hope to find Rome here again.

For Oaths and Blasphemies did ever ear

From Beelzebub himself such language hear?

What scorning of the Saints of the most high!

What injuries did daily on them lie!

What false reports, what nick-names did they take, Not for their own, but for their Master’s sake!

And thou, poor soul, wast jeer’d among the rest; Thy flying for the Truth I made a jest.

For Sabbath-breaking and for Drunkenness Did ever Land profaneness more express?

From crying bloods yet cleansed am not I, Martyrs and others dying causelessly.

How many Princely heads on blocks laid down For nought but title to a fading Crown!

‘Mongst all the cruelties which I have done, Oh, Edward’s Babes, and Clarence’s hapless Son,

O Jane, why didst thou die in flow’ring prime?— Because of Royal Stem, that was thy crime.

For Bribery, Adultery, for Thefts, and Lies Where is the Nation I can’t paralyze?

With Usury, Extortion, and Oppression,
These be the Hydras of my stout transgression; These be the bitter fountains, heads, and roots

Whence flow’d the source, the sprigs, the boughs, and fruits.
Of more than thou canst hear or I relate, That with high hand I still did perpetrate, For these were threat’ned the woeful day I mocked the Preachers, put it fair away.

The Sermons yet upon record do stand
That cried destruction to my wicked Land.
These Prophets’ mouths (all the while) was stopt, Unworthily, some backs whipt, and ears crept; Their reverent cheeks bear the glorious marks Of stinking, stigmatizing Romish Clerks; Some lost their livings, some in prison pent, Some grossly fined, from friends to exile went:

Their silent tongues to heaven did vengeance cry, Who heard their cause, and wrongs judg’d righteously, And will repay it sevenfold in my lap.

This is fore-runner of my after-clap.

Nor took I warning by my neighbors’ falls.

I saw sad Germany’s dismantled walls,

I saw her people famish’d, Nobles slain, Her fruitful land a barren heath remain.

I saw (unmov’d) her Armies foil’d and fled, Wives forc’d, babes toss’d, her houses calcined.

I saw strong Rochelle yield’d to her foe, Thousands of starved Christians there also.

I saw poor Ireland bleeding out her last, Such cruelty as all reports have past.

Mine heart obdurate stood not yet aghast.
Now sip I of that cup, and just ‘t may be The bottom dregs reserved are for me.

New England.
To all you’ve said, sad mother, I assent.
Your fearful sins great cause there ‘s to lament.
My guilty hands (in part) hold up with you, A sharer in your punishment’s my due.

But all you say amounts to this effect,
Not what you feel, but what you do expect.
Pray, in plain terms, what is your present grief?
Then let’s join heads and hands for your relief.

Old England.
Well, to the matter, then. There’s grown of late ‘Twixt King and Peers a question of state:

Which is the chief, the law, or else the King?

One saith, it’s he; the other, no such thing.

My better part in Court of Parliament

To ease my groaning land shew their intent To crush the proud, and right to each man deal, To help the Church, and stay the Common-Weal.

So many obstacles comes in their way

As puts me to a stand what I should say.

Old customs, new Prerogatives stood on.

Had they not held law fast, all had been gone, Which by their prudence stood them in such stead

They took high Strafford lower by the head, And to their Laud be ‘t spoke they held ‘n th’ Tower All England’s metropolitan that hour.
This done, an Act they would have passed fain No prelate should his Bishopric retain.

Here tugg’d they hard indeed, for all men saw This must be done by Gospel, not by law.

Next the Militia they urged sore.

This was denied, I need not say wherefore.

The King, displeased, at York himself absents.

They humbly beg return, shew their intents.

The writing, printing, posting to and fro, Shews all was done; I’ll therefore let it go.

But now I come to speak of my disaster.

Contention’s grown ‘twixt Subjects and their Master, They worded it so long they fell to blows, That thousands lay on heaps. Here bleeds my woes.

I that no wars so many years have known

Am now destroy’d and slaughter’d by mine own.

But could the field alone this strife decide, One battle, two, or three I might abide, But these may be beginnings of more woe— Who knows, the worst, the best may overthrow!

Religion, Gospel, here lies at the stake, Pray now, dear child, for sacred Zion’s sake,

Oh, pity me in this sad perturbation,
My plundered Towns, my houses’ devastation, My ravisht virgins, and my young men slain, My wealthy trading fallen, my dearth of grain.
The seedtime’s come, but Ploughman hath no hope Because he knows not who shall inn his crop.

The poor they want their pay, their children bread, Their woful mothers’ tears unpitied.

If any pity in thy heart remain,
Or any child-like love thou dost retain, For my relief now use thy utmost skill, And recompense me good for all my ill.

New England.
Dear mother, cease complaints, and wipe your eyes, Shake off your dust, cheer up, and now arise.

You are my mother, nurse, I once your flesh, Your sunken bowels gladly would refresh.

Your griefs I pity much but should do wrong, To weep for that we both have pray’d for long, To see these latter days of hop’d-for good, That Right may have its right, though ‘t be with blood.

After dark Popery the day did clear;

But now the Sun in’s brightness shall appear.

Blest be the Nobles of thy Noble Land

With (ventur’d lives) for truth’s defence that stand.

Blest be thy Commons, who for Common good And thy infringed Laws have boldly stood.

Blest be thy Counties, who do aid thee still With hearts and states to testify their will.

Blest be thy Preachers, who do cheer thee on.
Oh, cry: the sword of God and Gideon!
And shall I not on them wish Mero’s curse That help thee not with prayers, arms, and purse?

And for my self, let miseries abound
If mindless of thy state I e’er be found.
These are the days the Church’s foes to crush, To root out Prelates, head, tail, branch, and rush.

Let’s bring Baal’s vestments out, to make a fire, Their Mitres, Surplices, and all their tire,

Copes, Rochets, Croziers, and such trash, And let their names consume, but let the flash

Light Christendom, and all the world to see We hate Rome’s Whore, with all her trumpery.

Go on, brave Essex, shew whose son thou art, Not false to King, nor Country in thy heart, But those that hurt his people and his Crown, By force expel, destroy, and tread them down.

Let Gaols be fill’d with th’ remnant of that pack, And sturdy Tyburn loaded till it crack.

And ye brave Nobles, chase away all fear, And to this blessed Cause closely adhere.

O mother, can you weep and have such Peers?
When they are gone, then drown your self in tears, If now you weep so much, that then no more The briny Ocean will o’erflow your shore.
These, these are they (I trust) with Charles our king, Out of all mists such glorious days will bring That dazzled eyes, beholding, much shall wonder At that thy settled Peace, thy wealth, and splendour,

Thy Church and Weal establish’d in such manner That all shall joy that thou display’dst thy banner, And discipline erected so, I trust,
That nursing Kings shall come and lick thy dust.
Then Justice shall in all thy Courts take place Without respect of persons or of case.

Then bribes shall cease, and suits shall not stick long, Patience and purse of Clients for to wrong.

Then High Commissions shall fall to decay, And Pursuivants and Catchpoles want their pay.

So shall thy happy Nation ever flourish, When truth and righteousness they thus shall nourish.

When thus in Peace, thine Armies brave send out To sack proud Rome, and all her vassals rout.

There let thy name, thy fame, and valour shine, As did thine Ancestors’ in Palestine, And let her spoils full pay with int’rest be Of what unjustly once she poll’d from thee.

Of all the woes thou canst let her be sped, Execute to th’ full the vengeance threatened.

Bring forth the beast that rul’d the world with’s beck, And tear his flesh, and set your feet on’s neck, And make his filthy den so desolate
To th’ ‘stonishment of all that knew his state.
This done, with brandish’d swords to Turkey go,— (For then what is it but English blades dare do?)

And lay her waste, for so’s the sacred doom, And do to Gog as thou hast done to Rome.

Oh Abraham’s seed, lift up your heads on high, For sure the day of your redemption’s nigh.

The scales shall fall from your long blinded eyes, And him you shall adore who now despise.

Then fullness of the Nations in shall flow, And Jew and Gentile to one worship go.

Then follows days of happiness and rest.
Whose lot doth fall to live therein is blest.
No Canaanite shall then be found ‘n th’ land, And holiness on horses’ bells shall stand.

If this make way thereto, then sigh no more, But if at all thou didst not see ‘t before.

Farewell, dear mother; Parliament, prevail, And in a while you’ll tell another tale.

The Four Ages of Man

[Introduction]
Lo now! four other acts upon the stage,
Childhood, and Youth, the Manly, and Old-age.
The first: son unto Phlegm, grand-child to water, Unstable, supple, moist, and cold’s his Nature.

The second: frolic claims his pedigree;
From blood and air, for hot and moist is he.
The third of fire and choler is compos’d, Vindicative, and quarrelsome dispos’d.

The last, of earth and heavy melancholy, Solid, hating all lightness, and all folly.

Childhood was cloth’d in white, and given to show, His spring was intermixed with some snow.

Upon his head a Garland Nature set:
Of Daisy, Primrose, and the Violet.
Such cold mean flowers (as these) blossom betime, Before the Sun hath throughly warm’d the clime.

His hobby striding, did not ride, but run, And in his hand an hour-glass new begun, In dangers every moment of a fall,
And when ‘tis broke, then ends his life and all.
But if he held till it have run its last, Then may he live till threescore years or past.

Next, youth came up in gorgeous attire
(As that fond age, doth most of all desire), His Suit of Crimson, and his Scarf of Green.

In’s countenance, his pride quickly was seen.
Garland of Roses, Pinks, and Gillyflowers Seemed to grow on’s head (bedew’d with showers).

His face as fresh, as is Aurora fair,

When blushing first, she ‘gins to red the Air.

No wooden horse, but one of metal try’d:

He seems to fly, or swim, and not to ride.

Then prancing on the Stage, about he wheels; But as he went, death waited at his heels.

The next came up, in a more graver sort, As one that cared for a good report.

His Sword by’s side, and choler in his eyes, But neither us’d (as yet) for he was wise, Of Autumn fruits a basket on his arm,
His golden rod in’s purse, which was his charm.
And last of all, to act upon this Stage, Leaning upon his staff, comes up old age.

Under his arm a Sheaf of wheat he bore,
A Harvest of the best: what needs he more?
In’s other hand a glass, ev’n almost run, This writ about: This out, then I am done.

His hoary hairs and grave aspect made way, And all gave ear to what he had to say.

These being met, each in his equipage

Intend to speak, according to their age, But wise Old-age did with all gravity To childish childhood give precedency,

And to the rest, his reason mildly told:

That he was young, before he grew so old.

To do as he, the rest full soon assents, Their method was that of the Elements, That each should tell what of himself he knew, Both good and bad, but yet no more then’s true.

With heed now stood, three ages of frail man, To hear the child, who crying, thus began.

Childhood
Ah me! conceiv’d in sin, and born in sorrow, A nothing, here to day, but gone to morrow, Whose mean beginning, blushing can’t reveal, But night and darkness must with shame conceal.

My mother’s breeding sickness, I will spare, Her nine months’ weary burden not declare.

To shew her bearing pangs, I should do wrong, To tell that pain, which can’t be told by tongue.

With tears into this world I did arrive; My mother still did waste, as I did thrive, Who yet with love and all alacity,
Spending was willing to be spent for me.
With wayward cries, I did disturb her rest, Who sought still to appease me with her breast; With weary arms, she danc’d, and By, By, sung, When wretched I (ungrate) had done the wrong.

When Infancy was past, my Childishness
Did act all folly that it could express.
My silliness did only take delight,
In that which riper age did scorn and slight, In Rattles, Bables, and such toyish stuff.

My then ambitious thoughts were low enough.
My high-born soul so straitly was confin’d That its own worth it did not know nor mind.

This little house of flesh did spacious count, Through ignorance, all troubles did surmount, Yet this advantage had mine ignorance,
Freedom from Envy and from Arrogance.
How to be rich, or great, I did not cark, A Baron or a Duke ne’r made my mark,

Nor studious was, Kings favours how to buy, With costly presents, or base flattery; No office coveted, wherein I might
Make strong my self and turn aside weak right.
No malice bare to this or that great Peer, Nor unto buzzing whisperers gave ear.

I gave no hand, nor vote, for death, of life.

I’d nought to do, ‘twixt Prince, and peoples’ strife.

No Statist I: nor Marti’list i’ th’ field.

Where e’re I went, mine innocence was shield.

My quarrels, not for Diadems, did rise,

But for an Apple, Plumb, or some such prize.

My strokes did cause no death, nor wounds, nor scars.

My little wrath did cease soon as my wars.

My duel was no challenge, nor did seek.

My foe should weltering, with his bowels reek.

I had no Suits at law, neighbours to vex, Nor evidence for land did me perplex.

I fear’d no storms, nor all the winds that blows.
I had no ships at Sea, no fraughts to loose.
I fear’d no drought, nor wet; I had no crop, Nor yet on future things did place my hope.

This was mine innocence, but oh the seeds Lay raked up of all the cursed weeds, Which sprouted forth in my insuing age,

As he can tell, that next comes on the stage.

But yet me let me relate, before I go,

The sins and dangers I am subject to:

From birth stained, with Adam’s sinful fact, From thence I ‘gan to sin, as soon as act; A perverse will, a love to what’s forbid; A serpent’s sting in pleasing face lay hid; A lying tongue as soon as it could speak And fifth Commandment do daily break;

Oft stubborn, peevish, sullen, pout, and cry; Then nought can please, and yet I know not why.

As many was my sins, so dangers too,

For sin brings sorrow, sickness, death, and woe, And though I miss the tossings of the mind, Yet griefs in my frail flesh I still do find.

What gripes of wind, mine infancy did pain?

What tortures I, in breeding teeth sustain?

What crudities my cold stomach hath bred?

Whence vomits, worms, and flux have issued?

What breaches, knocks, and falls I daily have?

And some perhaps, I carry to my grave.

Sometimes in fire, sometimes in water fall:

Strangely preserv’d, yet mind it not at all.

At home, abroad, my danger’s manifold

That wonder ‘tis, my glass till now doth hold.

I’ve done: unto my elders I give way,

For ‘tis but little that a child can say.

Youth
My goodly clothing and beauteous skin
Declare some greater riches are within,
But what is best I‘ll first present to view, And then the worst, in a more ugly hue, For thus to do we on this Stage assemble, Then let not him, which hath most craft dissemble.

Mine education, and my learning‘s such,
As might my self, and others, profit much:
With nurture trained up in virtue‘s Schools; Of Science, Arts, and Tongues, I know the rules; The manners of the Court, I likewise know, Nor ignorant what they in Country do.

The brave attempts of valiant Knights I prize That dare climb Battlements, rear‘d to the skies.

The snorting Horse, the Trumpet, Drum I like, The glist‘ring Sword, and well advanced Pike.

I cannot lie in trench before a Town,
Nor wait til good advice our hopes do crown.
I scorn the heavy Corslet, Musket-proof; I fly to catch the Bullet that‘s aloof.

Though thus in field, at home, to all most kind, So affable that I do suit each mind,

I can insinuate into the breast

And by my mirth can raise the heart deprest.

Sweet Music rapteth my harmonious Soul,

And elevates my thoughts above the Pole.

My wit, my bounty, and my courtesy

Makes all to place their future hopes on me.

This is my best, but youth (is known) alas, To be as wild as is the snuffing Ass, As vain as froth, as vanity can be,

That who would see vain man may look on me:

My gifts abus‘d, my education lost,

My woful Parents‘ longing hopes all crost; My wit evaporates in merriment; My valour in some beastly quarrel‘s spent; Martial deeds I love not, ‘cause they’re virtuous, But doing so, might seem magnanimous.

My Lust doth hurry me to all that’s ill, I know no Law, nor reason, but my will; Sometimes lay wait to take a wealthy purse Or stab the man in’s own defence, that’s worse.

Sometimes I cheat (unkind) a female Heir Of all at once, who not so wise, as fair,

Trusteth my loving looks and glozing tongue Until her friends, treasure, and honour’s gone.

Sometimes I sit carousing others’ health Until mine own be gone, my wit, and wealth.

From pipe to pot, from pot to words and blows, For he that loveth Wine wanteth no woes.

Days, nights, with Ruffins, Roarers, Fiddlers spend, To all obscenity my ears I bend, All counsel hate which tends to make me wise, And dearest friends count for mine enemies.

If any care I take, ‘tis to be fine,
For sure my suit more than my virtues shine.
If any time from company I spare,
‘Tis spent in curling, frisling up my hair, Some young Adonais I do strive to be.

Sardana Pallas now survives in me.
Cards, Dice, and Oaths, concomitant, I love; To Masques, to Plays, to Taverns still I move; And in a word, if what I am you’d hear,
Seek out a British, bruitish Cavalier.
Such wretch, such monster am I; but yet more I want a heart all this for to deplore.

Thus, thus alas! I have mispent my time, My youth, my best, my strength, my bud, and prime,

Remembring not the dreadful day of Doom, Nor yet the heavy reckoning for to come,

Though dangers do attend me every hour
And ghastly death oft threats me with her power:
Sometimes by wounds in idle combats taken, Sometimes by Agues all my body shaken;

Sometimes by Fevers, all my moisture drinking, My heart lies frying, and my eyes are sinking.

Sometimes the Cough, Stitch, painful Pleurisy, With sad affrights of death, do menace me.

Sometimes the loathsome Pox my face be-mars With ugly marks of his eternal scars.

Sometimes the Frenzy strangely mads my Brain That oft for it in Bedlam I remain.

Too many’s my Diseases to recite,
That wonder ‘tis I yet behold the light, That yet my bed in darkness is not made, And I in black oblivion’s den long laid.
Of Marrow full my bones, of Milk my breasts, Ceas’d by the gripes of Serjeant Death's Arrests:

Thus I have said, and what I’ve said you see, Childhood and youth is vain, yea vanity.

Middle Age
Childhood and youth forgot, sometimes I’ve seen, And now am grown more staid that have been green,

What they have done, the same was done by me:
As was their praise, or shame, so mine must be.
Now age is more, more good ye do expect; But more my age, the more is my defect.

But what’s of worth, your eyes shall first behold, And then a world of dross among my gold.

When my Wild Oats were sown, and ripe, and mown, I then receiv’d a harvest of mine own.

My reason, then bad judge, how little hope Such empty seed should yield a better crop.

I then with both hands graspt the world together, Thus out of one extreme into another, But yet laid hold on virtue seemingly:

Who climbs without hold, climbs dangerously.

Be my condition mean, I then take pains

My family to keep, but not for gains.

If rich, I’m urged then to gather more

To bear me out i’ th’ world and feed the poor; If a father, then for children must provide, But if none, then for kindred near ally’d; If Noble, then mine honour to maintain; If not, yet wealth, Nobility can gain.

For time, for place, likewise for each relation, I wanted not my ready allegation.

Yet all my powers for self-ends are not spent, For hundreds bless me for my bounty sent, Whose loins I’ve cloth’d, and bellies I have fed, With mine own fleece, and with my household bread.

Yea, justice I have done, was I in place, To cheer the good and wicked to deface.

The proud I crush’d, th’oppressed I set free, The liars curb’d but nourisht verity.

Was I a pastor, I my flock did feed
And gently lead the lambs, as they had need.
A Captain I, with skill I train’d my band And shew’d them how in face of foes to stand.

If a Soldier, with speed I did obey

As readily as could my Leader say.

Was I a laborer, I wrought all day

As cheerfully as ere I took my pay.

Thus hath mine age (in all) sometimes done well; Sometimes mine age (in all) been worse than hell.

In meanness, greatness, riches, poverty

Did toil, did broil; oppress’d, did steal and lie.

Was I as poor as poverty could be,

Then baseness was companion unto me.

Such scum as Hedges and High-ways do yield, As neither sow, nor reap, nor plant, nor build.

If to Agriculture I was ordain’d,

Great labours, sorrows, crosses I sustain’d.

The early Cock did summon, but in vain,

My wakeful thoughts up to my painful gain.

For restless day and night, I’m robb’d of sleep By cankered care, who sentinel doth keep.

My weary breast rest from his toil can find, But if I rest, the more distrest my mind.

If happiness my sordidness hath found,

‘Twas in the crop of my manured ground:

My fatted Ox, and my exuberous Cow,

My fleeced Ewe, and ever farrowing Sow.

To greater things I never did aspire,

My dunghill thoughts or hopes could reach no higher.

If to be rich, or great, it was my fate.

How was I broil’d with envy, and with hate?

Greater than was the great’st was my desire, And greater still, did set my heart on fire.

If honour was the point to which I steer’d, To run my hull upon disgrace I fear’d, But by ambitious sails I was so carried

That over flats, and sands, and rocks I hurried, Opprest, and sunk, and sack’d, all in my way That did oppose me to my longed bay.

My thirst was higher than Nobility

And oft long’d sore to taste on Royalty, Whence poison, Pistols, and dread instruments Have been curst furtherers of mine intents.

Nor Brothers, Nephews, Sons, nor Sires I’ve spar’d.

When to a Monarchy my way they barr'’d,

There set, I rid my self straight out of hand Of such as might my son, or his withstand, Then heapt up gold and riches as the clay, Which others scatter like the dew in May.

Sometimes vain-glory is the only bait

Whereby my empty school is lur’d and caught.

Be I of worth, of learning, or of parts, I judge I should have room in all men’s hearts; And envy gnaws if any do surmount.

I hate for to be had in small account.

If Bias like, I’m stript unto my skin;

I glory in my wealth I have within.

Thus good, and bad, and what I am, you see, Now in a word, what my diseases be:

The vexing Stone, in bladder and in reins, Torments me with intolerable pains; The windy cholic oft my bowels rend,
To break the darksome prison, where it’s penn’d; The knotty Gout doth sadly torture me, And the restraining lame Sciatica;
The Quinsy and the Fevers often distaste me, And the Consumption to the bones doth waste me,

Subject to all Diseases, that’s the truth, Though some more incident to age, or youth; And to conclude, I may not tedious be,
Man at his best estate is vanity.

Old Age
What you have been, ev’n such have I before, And all you say, say I, and something more.

Babe's innocence, Youth’s wildness I have seen, And in perplexed Middle-age have been, Sickness, dangers, and anxieties have past, And on this Stage am come to act my last.

I have been young, and strong, and wise as you But now, Bis pueri senes is too true.

In every Age I’ve found much vanity.
An end of all perfection now I see.
It’s not my valour, honour, nor my gold, My ruin’d house, now falling can uphold;

It’s not my Learning, Rhetoric, wit so large, Now hath the power, Death’s Warfare, to discharge.

It’s not my goodly house, nor bed of down, That can refresh, or ease, if Conscience frown;

Nor from alliance now can I have hope,
But what I have done well, that is my prop.
He that in youth is godly, wise, and sage Provides a staff for to support his age.

Great mutations, some joyful, and some sad, In this short Pilgrimage I oft have had.

Sometimes the Heavens with plenty smil’d on me, Sometimes, again, rain’d all adversity;

Sometimes in honour, sometimes in disgrace, Sometime an abject, then again in place:

Such private changes oft mine eyes have seen.

In various times of state I’ve also been.

I’ve seen a Kingdom flourish like a tree When it was rul’d by that Celestial she, And like a Cedar others so surmount

That but for shrubs they did themselves account.

Then saw I France, and Holland sav’d, Calais won, And Philip and Albertus half undone.

I saw all peace at home, terror to foes, But ah, I saw at last those eyes to close, And then, me thought, the world at noon grew dark When it had lost that radiant Sun-like spark.

In midst of griefs, I saw some hopes revive (For ‘twas our hopes then kept our hearts alive);

I saw hopes dash’t, our forwardness was shent, And silenc’d we, by Act of Parliament.

I’ve seen from Rome, an execrable thing, A plot to blow up Nobles and their King.

I’ve seen designs at Ree and Cades cross’t, And poor Palatinate for every lost.

I’ve seen a Prince to live on others’ lands, A Royal one, by alms from Subjects’ hands.

I’ve seen base men, advanc’d to great degree, And worthy ones, put to extremity, But not their Prince’s love, nor state so high, Could once reverse, their shameful destiny.

I’ve seen one stabb’d, another lose his head, And others fly their Country through their dread.

I’ve seen, and so have ye, for ‘tis but late, The desolation of a goodly State.

Plotted and acted so that none can tell
Who gave the counsell, but the Prince of hell.
I’ve seen a land unmoulded with great pain, But yet may live to see’t made up again.

I’ve seen it shaken, rent, and soak’d in blood, But out of troubles ye may see much good.

These are no old wives’ tales, but this is truth.

We old men love to tell, what’s done in youth.

But I return from whence I stept awry;

My memory is short and brain is dry.

My Almond-tree (gray hairs) doth flourish now, And back, once straight, begins apace to bow.

My grinders now are few, my sight doth fail, My skin is wrinkled, and my cheeks are pale.

No more rejoice, at music’s pleasant noise, But do awake at the cock’s clanging voice.

I cannot scent savours of pleasant meat, Nor sapors find in what I drink or eat.

My hands and arms, once strong, have lost their might.

I cannot labour, nor I cannot fight:

My comely legs, as nimble as the Roe,

Now stiff and numb, can hardly creep or go.

My heart sometimes as fierce, as Lion bold, Now trembling, and fearful, sad, and cold.

My golden Bowl and silver Cord, e’re long, Shall both be broke, by wracking death so strong.

I then shall go whence I shall come no more.
Sons, Nephews, leave, my death for to deplore.
In pleasures, and in labours, I have found That earth can give no consolation sound To great, to rich, to poor, to young, or old, To mean, to noble, fearful, or to bold.

From King to beggar, all degrees shall find But vanity, vexation of the mind.

Yea, knowing much, the pleasant’st life of all Hath yet amongst that sweet, some bitter gall.

Though reading others’ Works doth much refresh, Yet studying much brings weariness to th’ flesh.

My studies, labours, readings all are done, And my last period can e’en elmost run.

Corruption, my Father, I do call,
Mother, and sisters both; the worms that crawl In my dark house, such kindred I have store.

There I shall rest till heavens shall be no more; And when this flesh shall rot and be consum’d,

This body, by this soul, shall be assum’d; And I shall see with these same very eyes My strong Redeemer coming in the skies.
Triumph I shall, o’re Sin, o’re Death, o’re Hell, And in that hope, I bid you all farewell.

In Honour of that High and Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth

Proem.
Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie, Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky

Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime, And so has vow’d, whilst there is world or time.

So great’s thy glory, and thine excellence, The sound thereof raps every human sense That men account it no impiety

To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.

Thousands bring off’rings (though out of date)

Thy world of honours to accumulate.

‘Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse, ‘Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.

Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain, T’ accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.

Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much
The acclamations of the poor, as rich,
Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong, Though I resound thy greatness ‘mongst the throng.

The Poem.

No Phoenix Pen, nor Spenser’s Poetry,

No Speed’s, nor Camden’s learned History; Eliza’s works, wars, praise, can e’re compact, The World’s the Theater where she did act.

No memories, nor volumes can contain,

The nine Olymp’ades of her happy reign,

Who was so good, so just, so learn’d, so wise, From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.

Nor say I more than truly is her due.
Millions will testify that this is true.
She hath wip’d off th’ aspersion of her Sex, That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.

Spain’s Monarch sa’s not so, not yet his Host:
She taught them better manners to their cost.
The Salic Law had not in force now been, If France had ever hop’d for such a Queen.

But can you Doctors now this point dispute, She’s argument enough to make you mute, Since first the Sun did run, his ne’er runn’d race, And earth had twice a year, a new old face; Since time was time, and man unmanly man, Come shew me such a Phoenix if you can.

Was ever people better rul’d than hers?

Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?

Did ever wealth in England so abound?

Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?

Ships more invincible than Spain’s, her foe She rack’t, she sack’d, she sunk his Armadoe.

Her stately Troops advanc’d to Lisbon’s wall, Don Anthony in’s right for to install.

She frankly help’d Franks’ (brave) distressed King, The States united now her fame do sing.

She their Protectrix was, they well do know, Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.

Her Nobles sacrific’d their noble blood, Nor men, nor coin she shap’d, to do them good.

The rude untamed Irish she did quell,

And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.

Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?

Her self Minerva caus’d them so to be.

Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen, As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:

Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round, Terra incognitæ might know her sound.

Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold, Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.

But time would fail me, so my wit would too, To tell of half she did, or she could do.

Semiramis to her is but obscure;
More infamy than fame she did procure.
She plac’d her glory but on Babel’s walls, World's wonder for a time, but yet it falls.

Fierce Tomris (Cirus’ Heads-man, Sythians’ Queen)
Had put her Harness off, had she but seen Our Amazon i’ th’ Camp at Tilbury,

(Judging all valour, and all Majesty)

Within that Princess to have residence,

And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.

Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls (Who living consummates her Funerals), A great Eliza, but compar’d with ours,

How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.

Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name, Instead of glory, prov’d her Country’s shame:

Of her what worth in Story’s to be seen, But that she was a rich Ægyptian Queen.

Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,
And of all these without compare the best (Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)

Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:
She was a Phoenix Queen, so shall she be, Her ashes not reviv’d more Phoenix she.

Her personal perfections, who would tell, Must dip his Pen i’ th’ Heliconian Well, Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire To read what others write and then admire.

Now say, have women worth, or have they none?
Or had they some, but with our Queen is’t gone?
Nay Masculines, you have thus tax’d us long, But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.

Let such as say our sex is void of reason Know ‘tis a slander now, but once was treason.

But happy England, which had such a Queen, O happy, happy, had those days still been, But happiness lies in a higher sphere.
Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.
Full fraught with honour, riches, and with days, She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.

No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun, Until the heaven’s great revolution:

If then new things, their old form must retain, Eliza shall rule Albian once again.

Her Epitaph.
Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed O’ th’ Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red, Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air, This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:

On neither tree did grow such Rose before, The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

Another.
Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:
So blaze it fame, here’s feathers for thy wings.
Here lies the envy’d, yet unparallel’d Prince, Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).

If many worlds, as that fantastic framed, In every one, be her great glory famed.

In Reference to her Children, 23 June 1659

I had eight birds hatcht in one nest,

Four Cocks were there, and Hens the rest.

I nurst them up with pain and care,

No cost nor labour did I spare

Till at the last they felt their wing,

Mounted the Trees and learned to sing.

Chief of the Brood then took his flight

To Regions far and left me quite.

My mournful chirps I after send

Till he return, or I do end.

Leave not thy nest, thy Dame and Sire,

Fly back and sing amidst this Quire.

My second bird did take her flight

And with her mate flew out of sight.

Southward they both their course did bend, And Seasons twain they there did spend,

Till after blown by Southern gales

They Norward steer’d with filled sails.

A prettier bird was no where seen,

Along the Beach, among the treen.

I have a third of colour white

On whom I plac’d no small delight,

Coupled with mate loving and true,

Hath also bid her Dame adieu.

And where Aurora first appears,

She now hath percht to spend her years.

One to the Academy flew

To chat among that learned crew.

Ambition moves still in his breast

That he might chant above the rest,

Striving for more than to do well,

That nightingales he might excell.

My fifth, whose down is yet scarce gone, Is ‘mongst the shrubs and bushes flown And as his wings increase in strength

On higher boughs he’ll perch at length.

My other three still with me nest

Until they’re grown, then as the rest,

Or here or there, they’ll take their flight, As is ordain’d, so shall they light.

If birds could weep, then would my tears Let others know what are my fears

Lest this my brood some harm should catch And be surpris’d for want of watch

Whilst pecking corn and void of care

They fall un’wares in Fowler’s snare;

Or whilst on trees they sit and sing

Some untoward boy at them do fling,

Or whilst allur’d with bell and glass

The net be spread and caught, alas;

Or lest by Lime-twigs they be foil’d;

Or by some greedy hawks be spoil’d.

O would, my young, ye saw my breast

And knew what thoughts there sadly rest.

Great was my pain when I you bred,

Great was my care when I you fed.

Long did I keep you soft and warm

And with my wings kept off all harm.

My cares are more, and fears, than ever, My throbs such now as ‘fore were never.

Alas, my birds, you wisdom want
Of perils you are ignorant.
Oft times in grass, on trees, in flight, Sore accidents on you may light.

O to your safety have an eye,

So happy may you live and die.

Mean while, my days in tunes I’ll spend

Till my weak lays with me shall end.

In shady woods I’ll sit and sing

And things that past, to mind I’ll bring.

Once young and pleasant, as are you,

But former toys (no joys) adieu!

My age I will not once lament

But sing, my time so near is spent,

And from the top bough take my flight

Into a country beyond sight

Where old ones instantly grow young

And there with seraphims set song.

No seasons cold, nor storms they see

But spring lasts to eternity.

When each of you shall in your nest

Among your young ones take your rest,

In chirping languages oft them tell

You had a Dame that lov’d you well,

That did what could be done for young

And nurst you up till you were strong

And ‘fore she once would let you fly

She shew'd you joy and misery,

Taught what was good, and what was ill,

What would save life, and what would kill.

Thus gone, amongst you I may live,

And dead, yet speak and counsel give.

Farewell, my birds, farewell, adieu,

I happy am, if well with you.

A Letter to her Husband, absent upon Publick employment

My head, my heart, mine Eyes, my life, nay more, My joy, my Magazine of earthly store, If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lye?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever If but a neck, soon should we be together:

I like the earth this season, mourn in black, My Sun is gone so far in’s Zodiack, Whom whilst I ’joy’d, nor storms, nor frosts I felt, His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt.

My chilled limbs now nummed lye forlorn; Return, return sweet Sol from Capricorn; In this dead time, alas, what can I more Then view those fruits which through thy heat I bore?

Which sweet contentment yield me for a space, True living Pictures of their Fathers face.

O strange effect! now thou art Southward gone, I weary grow, the tedious day so long; But when thou Northward to me shalt return, I wish my Sun may never set, but burn Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence, Till natures sad decree shall call thee hence;

Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.

Prologue

To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun, For my mean Pen are too superior things; Or how they all, or each their dates have run,

Let Poets and Historians set these forth.
My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.

But when my wond’ring eyes and envious heart Great Bartas’ sugar’d lines do but read o’er,

Fool, I do grudge the Muses did not part ‘Twixt him and me that over-fluent store.

A Bartas can do what a Bartas will
But simple I according to my skill.

From School-boy’s tongue no Rhet’ric we expect, Nor yet a sweet Consort from broken strings,

Nor perfect beauty where’s a main defect.
My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings, And this to mend, alas, no Art is able,

‘Cause Nature made it so irreparable.

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greek Who lisp’d at first, in future times speak plain.

By Art he gladly found what he did seek, A full requital of his striving pain.

Art can do much, but this maxim’s most sure:
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue
Who says my hand a needle better fits.
A Poet’s 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’ll say it’s stol’n, or else it was by chance.

But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild, Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine And 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 and lie.

Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.

Men have precedency and still excel;

It is but vain unjustly to wage war.

Men can do best, and Women know it well.

Preeminence 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 deign these lowly lines your eyes, Give thyme or Parsley wreath, I ask no Bays.

This mean and unrefined ore of mine
Will make your glist’ring gold but more to shine.

To Her Father with Some Verses

Most truly honoured, and as truly dear,

If worth in me or ought I do appear,

Who can of right better demand the same

Than may your worthy self from whom it came?

The principal might yield a greater sum, Yet handled ill, amounts but to this crumb; My stock's so small I know not how to pay, My bond remains in force unto this day; Yet for part payment take this simple mite, Where nothing's to be had, kings loose their right.

Such is my debt I may not say forgive,
But as I can, I'll pay it while I live;
Such is my bond, none can discharge but I, Yet paying is not paid until I die.

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever, That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666

Here Follows Some Verses Upon the Burning of Our house, July 10th. 1666. Copied Out of a Loose Paper.

In silent night when rest I took,

For sorrow near I did not look,

I wakened was with thund’ring noise

And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.

That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,” Let no man know is my Desire.

I, starting up, the light did spy,

And to my God my heart did cry

To straighten me in my Distress

And not to leave me succourless.

Then, coming out, behold a space

The flame consume my dwelling place.

And when I could no longer look,

I blest His name that gave and took,

That laid my goods now in the dust.

Yea, so it was, and so ‘twas just.

It was his own, it was not mine,

Far be it that I should repine;

He might of all justly bereft

But yet sufficient for us left.

When by the ruins oft I past

My sorrowing eyes aside did cast

And here and there the places spy

Where oft I sate and long did lie.

Here stood that trunk, and there that chest, There lay that store I counted best.

My pleasant things in ashes lie

And them behold no more shall I.

Under thy roof no guest shall sit,

Nor at thy Table eat a bit.

No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told

Nor things recounted done of old.

No Candle e'er shall shine in Thee,

Nor bridegroom‘s voice e'er heard shall be.

In silence ever shalt thou lie,

Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.

Then straight I ‘gin my heart to chide,

And did thy wealth on earth abide?

Didst fix thy hope on mould'ring dust?

The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?

Raise up thy thoughts above the sky

That dunghill mists away may fly.

Thou hast a house on high erect

Frameed by that mighty Architect,

With glory richly furnished,

Stands permanent though this be fled.

It‘s purchased and paid for too

By Him who hath enough to do.

A price so vast as is unknown,

Yet by His gift is made thine own;

There‘s wealth enough, I need no more,

Farewell, my pelf, farewell, my store.

The world no longer let me love,

My hope and treasure lies above.

Colophon

This edition of the works of Anne Bradstreet reproduces texts from public domain editions of her collected poems and prose. Bradstreet's The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America (1650) was the first volume of poetry published by a resident of the American colonies, and her posthumous works (1678) secured her reputation as one of the finest poets of the colonial era.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

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