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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345152" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Author to her Book, The</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345152" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Thou ill-form'd offspring of my feeble brain,<br>Who after birth did'st by my side remain,<br>Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,<br>Who thee abroad expos'd to public view,<br>Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge,<br>Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).<br>At thy return my blushing was not small,<br>My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.<br>I cast thee by as one unfit for light,<br>Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight,<br>Yet being mine own, at length affection would<br>Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.<br>I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw,<br>And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.<br>I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,<br>Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet.<br>In better dress to trim thee was my mind,<br>But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find.<br>In this array, 'mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.<br>In Critics' hands, beware thou dost not come,<br>And take thy way where yet thou art not known.<br>If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none;<br>And for thy Mother, she alas is poor,<br>Which caus'd her thus to send thee out of door.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anne+Bradstreet">Anne Bradstreet</a></strong></div>