| The Author To Her Book |
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Who after birth didst by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise then true Who thee abroad, expos'd to publick view, Made thee in raggs, halting to th' press to trudg, Where errors were not lessened (all may judg) At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print,) should mother call, I cast thee by as one unfit for light, Thy Visage was so irksome in my sight; Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could: I wash'd thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joynts to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobling then is meet; In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun Cloth, i' th' house I find In this array, mong'st Vulgars mayst thou roam In Critick's hands, beware thou dost not come; And take thy way where yet thou art not known, If for thy Father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy Mother, she alas is poor. Which caused her thus to turn thee out of door. |