The Prologue lyrics
by Anne Bradstreet
1
To sing of wars, of captains, and of kings,
Of cities founded, commonwealths begun,
For my mean pen are too superior things:
Or how they all, or each, their dates have run,
Let poets and historians set these forth,
My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.
2
But when my wond'ring eyes and envious heart
Great Bartas' sugar'd lines do but read o'er,
Fool I do grudge the Muses did not part
'Twixt him and me that overfluent store;
A Bartas can do what a Bartas will,
But simple I according to my skill.
3
From school-boy's tongue no rhet'ric we expect,
Nor yet a sweet consort from broken strings,
Nor perfect beauty where's a main defect:
My foolish, broken, blemished Muse so sings;
And this to mend, alas, no art is able,
Cause nature made it so irreparable.
4
Nor can I, like that fluent sweet tongu'd Greek,
Who lisp'd at first, in future times speak plain;
By art he gladly found what he did seek,
A full requital of his striving pain.
Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure:
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.