Upon the Author; by a Known Friend.
Now I believe Tradition, which doth call
The Muses, Virtues, Graces, Females all;
Only they are not nine, eleven nor three;
Our Auth'ress proves them but one unity.
Mankind take up some blushes on the score;
Monopolize perfection no more;
In your own Arts confess yourself out-done,
The Moon hath totally eclips'd the Sun,
Not with her Sable Mantle muffling him;
But her bright silver makes his gold look dim;
Just as his beams force our pale lamps to wink,
And earthly Fires, within their ashes shrink.
In praise of the Author, Mistress Anne Bradstreet,
Virtues true and lively Pattern, Wife of the Worshipfull Simon Bradstreet
Esq: At present residing in the Occidental
parts of the World in America,
Alias Nov-Anglia.
What golden splendent Star is this so bright,
One thousand Miles twice told, both day and night,
(From the Orient first sprung) now from the West
That shines; swift-winged Phœbus, and the rest
Of all Jove's fiery flames surmounting far
As doth each Planet, every falling Star;
By whose divine and lucid light most clear,
Nature's dark secret mysteryes appear;
Heavens, Earths, admired wonders, noble acts
Of Kings and Princes most heroick facts,
And what e're else in darkness seemed to dye,
Revives all things so obvious now to th' eye,
That he who these its glittering rayes views o're,
Shall see what's done in all the world before.
