A poem by Anne Bradstreet.

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wist than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee rags, halting to th' press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
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 affaction would
Thy blemishes amend, if so i could:
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I streched thy joints to make thee even feet,
yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i' th' house I find.
In this array 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.
In critics hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
if for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out the door