The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, Title page – Author to father
THE TENTH MUSE Lately ſprung up in AMERICA. OR Severall Poems, compiled with great variety of VVit and Learning, full of delight. Wherein eſpecially is contained a compleat diſcourſe and deſcription of
The Four Elements,
The Four Conſtitutions,
The Four Ages of Man,
The Four Seaſons of the Year.
Together with an Exact Epitomie of the Four Monarchies, viz.
The Aſſyrian,
The Perſian,
The Grecian,
The Roman.
Alſo a Dialogue between Old England and New, concerning the late troubles. With divers other pleaſant and ſerious Poems.
By a Gentlewoman in thoſe parts.
Printed at London for Stephen Bowtell at the ſigne of the Bible in Popes Head-Alley. 1650.
Kind Reader:
HAd I opportunity but to borrow ſome of the Authors wit, 'tis poſſible I might ſo trim this curious Work with ſuch quaint expreſsions, as that the Preface might beſpeake thy further peruſall; but I feare 'twil be a ſhame for a man that can ſpeak ſo little, to be ſeene in the title page of this Womans Book, leſt by comparing the one with the other, the Reader ſhould paſſe his ſentence, that it is the gift of women, not only to ſpeak moſt, but to ſpeake beſt; I ſhall leave therefore to commend that, which with any ingenious Reader will too much commend the Author, unleſse men turne more peeviſh then women, to envie the excellency of the inſeriour Sex. I doubt not but the Reader will quickly finde more then I can ſay, and the worſt effect of his reading will be unbeleif, which will make him queſtion whether it be a womans Work, and aske, Is it poſsible? If any doe, take this as an anſwer from him that dares avow it; It is the VVork of a VVoman, honoured, and eſteemed where ſhe lives, for her gracious demeanour, her eminent parts, her pious converſation, her courteous diſpoſition, her exact diligence in her place, and diſcreet mannaging of her family occaſions; and more then ſo, theſe Poems are the fruit but of ſome few houres, curtailed from her ſleep, and other refreſhments. I dare adde little, leſt I keepe thee too long, if thou wilt not beleeve the worth of theſe things (in their kind) when a man ſayes it, yet beleeve it from a woman when thou ſeeſt it. This only I ſhall annex, I feare the diſpleaſure of no perſon in the publiſhing of theſe Poems but the Authors, without whoſe knowledge, and contrary to her expectation, I have preſumed to bring to publick view what ſhe reſolved ſhould never in ſuch a manner ſee the Sun; but I found that divers had gotten ſome ſcattered papers, affected them wel, were likely to have ſent forth broken peices to the Authors prejudice, which I thought to prevent, as well as to pleaſure thoſe that earneſtly deſired the view of the whole.
MErcury ſhew'd Apollo, Bartas Book,
Minerva this, and wiſht him well to look,
And tell uprightly, which did which excell;
He view'd, and view'd, and vow'd he could not tell.
They bid him Hemiſphear his mouldy noſe,
With's crackt leering-glaſſes, for it would poſe
The beſt brains he had in's old pudding-pan,
Sex weigh'd, which beſt, the Woman, or the Man?
He peer'd, and por'd, and glar'd, and ſaid for wore,
I'me even as wiſe now, as I was before:
They both 'gan laugh, and ſaid, it was no mar'l
The Auth'reſſe was a right Du Bartas Girle.
Good ſooth quoth the old Don, tel, ye me ſo,
I muſe whither at length theſe Girls wil go;
It half revives my chil froſt-bitten blood,
To ſee a woman once do, ought, that's good;
And chode buy Chaucers Boots, and Homers Furrs,
Ler men look to't, leaſt women weare the Spurs.
To my deare Siſter, the Author of theſe Poems.
THough moſt that know me, dare (I think) affirm
I ne're was borne to doe a Poet harm,
Yet when I read your pleaſant witty ſtrains,
It wrought ſo ſtrongly on my addle brames;
That though my verſe be not ſo finely ſpun,
And ſo (like yours) cannot ſo neatly run,
Yet am I willing, with upright intent,
To ſhew my love without a complement.
There needs no painting to that comely face,
That in its native beauty hath ſuch grace;
What I (poore ſilly I) prefix therefore,
Can but doe this, make yours admir'd the more;
And if but only this, I doe attaine
Content, that my diſgrace may be your gaine.
If women, I with women, may compare,
Your Works are ſolid, others weake as aire;
Some books of Women I have heard of late,
Peruſed ſome, ſo witleſſe, intricate,
So void of ſence, and truth, as if to erre
Were only wiſht (acting above their ſphear)
And all to get, what (filly ſoules) they lack,
Eſteeme to be the wiſeſt of the pack;
Though (for your ſake) to ſome this be permitted,
To print, yet wiſh I many better witted;
Their vanity make this to be inquired,
If women are with wit, and ſence inſpired:
Yet when your Works ſhall come to publick view,
'Twill be affirm'd, 'twill be confirm'd by you:
And I, when ſeriouſly I had revolved
What you had done, I preſently reſolved,
Theirs was the Perſons, not the Sexes failing,
And therefore did be-ſpeak a modeſt vailing.
You have acutely in Eliza's ditty
Acquitted women, elſe I might with pitty,
Have wiſht them all to womens Works to look,
And never more to meddle with their book.
What you have done, the Sun ſhall witneſſe beare,
That for a womans Worke 'tis very rare;
And if the Nine vouchſafe the Tenth a place,
I think they rightly may yeeld you that grace.
But leaſt I ſhould exceed, and too much love,
Should too too much endear'd affection move,
To ſuper-adde in praiſes I ſhall ceaſe,
Leaſt while I pleaſe my ſelfe I ſhould diſpleaſe
The longing Reader, who may chance complaine,
And ſo requite my love with deep diſdaine;
That I your ſilly Servant, ſtand i' th' porch,
Lighting your Sun-light with my blinking torch;
Hindring his minds content, his ſweet repoſe,
Which your delightfull Poems doe diſcloſe,
When once the Caskets op'ned; yet to you
Let this be added, then i'le bid adieu,
If you ſhall think, it will be to your ſhame
To be in print, then I muſt beare the blame:
I…'t be a fault, 'tis mine, 'tis shame that might
Deny ſo faire an infant of its right,
To looke abroad; I know your modeſt minde,
How you will blush, complaine, 'tis too unkinde,
To force a womans birth, provoke her paine,
Expoſe her Labours to the world's diſdaine:
I know you'l ſay, you doe defie that mint,
That ſtampt you thus, to be a foole in print,
'Tis true, it doth not now ſo neatly ſtand,
As ift 'twere polliſht with your owne ſweet hand;
'Tis not ſo richly deckt, ſo trimly tir'd,
Yet it is ſuch as juſtly is admir'd.
If it be folly, 'tis of both, or neither,
Both you and I, we'l both be fools together;
And he that ſayes, 'tis fooliſh (if my word
May ſway) by my conſent ſhall make the third.
I dare out-face the worlds diſdaine for both,
If you alone profeſſe you are not wroth;
Yet if you are, a womans wrath is little,
When thouſands elſe admire you in each tittle.
…. W.
Upon the Author, by a knowne Friend.
NOw I beleeve Tradition, which doth call
The Muſes, Vertues, Graces, Females all;
Only they are not nine, eleaven, nor three,
Our Authreſſe proves them but one unity.
Mankind take up ſome bluſhes on the ſcore,
Menopolize perfection no more:
In your owne Arts, confeſſe your ſelves out-done,
The Moone hath totally ecclips'd the Sun,
Not with her ſable mantle mufling him,
But her bright ſilver makes his gold looke dim:
Juſt as his beams force our pale Lamps to winke,
And earthly Fires within their aſhes ſhrinke.
I cannot wonder at Apollo now,
That he with Female Lawrell crown'd his brow,
That made him witty: had I leave to chuſe,
My Verſe ſhould be a Page unto your Muſe.
C. B.
ARme, arme, Soldado's arme, Horſe, Horſe, ſpeed to your Horſes,
Gentle-women, make head, they vent their plots in Verſes;
They write of Monarchies, a moſt ſeditious word,
It ſignifies Oppreſſion, Tyranny, and Sword:
March amain to London, they'l riſe, for there they flock,
But ſtay a while, they ſeldome riſe till ten a clock.
R. Q.
In praiſe of the Author, Miſtris Anne Bradſtreet, Vertue's true and lively Patterne, Wife of the Worſhipfull Simon Bradſtreet Eſquire.
At preſent reſiding in the Occidentall parts of the World, in America, alias NOV-ANGLIA.
VVHat Golden ſplendent STAR is this, ſo bright,
One thouſand miles thrice told, both day and night,
(From th' Orient firſt ſprung) now from the Weſt
That ſhines; ſwift-winged Phoebus, and the reſt,
Of all Joves fiery ſtames ſurmounting far,
As doth each Planet, every falling Star;
By whoſe divine, and lucid light moſt cleare,
Natures darke ſecret Myſteries appeare;
Heaven's, Earths admired wonders, noble acts
Of Kings, and Princes moſt heroick facts,
And what e're elſe in darknes ſeem'd to dye,
Revives all things ſo obvious now to th' eye;
That he who theſe, its glittering Rayes viewes o're,
Shall ſee what's done in all the world before.
N. H.
Upon the Author.
TWere extreame folly ſhould I dare attempt,
To praiſe this Authors worth with complement;
None but her ſelf muſt dare commend her parts,
Whoſe ſublime brain's the Synopſis of Arts:
Nature and Skil, here both in one agree,
To frame this Maſter-peice of Poetry:
Falſe Fame, belye their Sex, no more, it can,
Surpaſſe, or parallel, the beſt of man.
C. B.
Another to Mris. Anne Bradſtreete, Author of this Poem.
I'Ve read your Poem (Lady) and admire,
Your Sex, to ſuch a pitch ſhould e're aſpire;
Goe on to write, continue to relate,
New Hiſtories, of Monarchy and State:
And what the Romans to their Poets gave,
Be ſure ſuch honour, and eſteeme you'l have.
H. S.
An Anagram.
Anna Bradeſtreate.
Deer Neat An Bartas.
So Bartas like thy fine ſpun Poems been,
That Bartas name will prove an Epicene.
Another.
Anne Bradſtreate.
Artes bred neat An▪
To her moſt Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Eſq; theſe humbly preſented.
DEare Sir, of late delighted with the ſight,
Of your T D. on the four parts of the worldſour ſiſters, deckt in black & white
Of fairer Dames, the ſun near ſaw the face,
(though made a pedeſtall for Adams Race)
Their worth ſo ſhines, in thoſe rich lines you ſhow.
Their paralells to find I ſcarcely know,
To climbe their Climes, I have nor ſtrength, nor skill,
To mount ſo high, requires an Eagles quill:
Yet view thereof, did cauſe my thoughts to ſoare,
My lowly pen, might wait upon thoſe four,
I bring my four; and four, now meanly clad,
To do their homage unto yours moſt glad,
Who for their age, their worth, and quality,
Might ſeem of yours to claime precedency;
But by my humble hand thus rudely pen'd
They are your bounden handmaids to attend.
Theſe ſame are they, of whom we being have,
Theſe are of all, the life, the nurſe, the grave,
Theſe are, the hot, the cold, the moiſt, the dry,
That ſinke, that ſwim, that fill, that upwards flye,
Of theſe conſiſts, our bodyes, cloathes, and food,
The world, the uſefull, hurtfull, and the good:
Sweet harmony they keep, yet jar oft times,
Their diſcord may appear, by theſe harſh rimes.
Yours did conteſt, for Wealth, for Arts, for Age,
My firſt do ſhew, their good, and then their rage,
My other four, do intermixed tell
Each others faults, and where themſelves excell:
How hot, and dry, contend with moiſt, and cold,
How Aire, and Earth, no correſpondence hold,
And yet in equall tempers, how they gree,
How divers natures, make one unity.
Some thing of all (though mean) I did intend,
But fear'd you'ld judge, one Bartas was my friend,
I honour him, but dare not wear his wealth,
My goods are true (though poor) I love no ſtealth,
But if I did, I durſt not ſend them you;
Who muſt reward a theife, but with his due.
I ſhall not need my innocence to clear,
Theſe ragged lines, will do't, when they appear.
On what they are, your mild aſpect I crave,
Accept my beſt, my worſt vouchſafe a grave.
From her, that to your ſelfe more duty owes,
Then waters, in the boundleſſe Ocean flowes.
ANNE BRADSTREET.