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.<br /><br />Anne Bradstreet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/author-to-her-book-the/
