152 Anne Bradstreet's Works.
Oft stubborn, peevish, sullen, pout and cry,
Then nought can please, and yet I know not why.
As many are my sins, so dangers too ;
For sin brings sorrow, sickness death and woe:
And though I miss the tossings of the mind,
Yet griefs in my frail flesh I still do find.
What gripes of wind mine infancy did pain, [48]
What tortures I in breeding teeth sustain?
What crudityes my stomack cold hath bred.
Whence vomits, flux and worms have issued?
What breaches, knocks and falls I daily have,
And some perhaps I carry to my grave.
Sometimes in fire, sometimes in water fall,
Strangly presev'd, yet mind it not at all:
At home, abroad my dangers manifold.
That wonder tis, my glass till now doth hold.
I've done; unto my elders I give way,
For tis but little that a child can say.
Youth.
MY goodly cloathing, and my beauteous skin
Declare some greater riches are within: But what is best I'le first present to view. And then the worst in a more ugly hue:
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