Anne Bradstreet (1612–1672) Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatched from me by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad, exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to the press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My sin in printing thee was great, and all. May some gentle muse With parents' smile, To those that are present, too much are the while. Thee however teach me, in thought, Thou may’st have make or faults, to keep writing.