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Anne Bradstreet - The Author to her Book
Work rating: Medium

	Thou ill-form`d offspring of my feeble brain,
	    Who after birth did`st by my side remain,
	    Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
	    Who thee abroad expos`d to public view,
	    Made thee in 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 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 stretcht 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 home-spun Cloth, i` th` house I find.
	   In this array, `mongst Vulgars mayst thou roam.
	   In Critics` 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.
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