Anne Bradstreet

Wisdom with an inheritance is good, but wisdom without an inheritance is better than an inheritance without wisdom.

Authority without wisdom is like a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish.

Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.

Now say, have women worth, or have they none? Or had they some, but with our Queen is__ gone? Nay Masculines, you have thus tax__ us long, But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong. Let such as say our sex is void of reason Know __is a slander now, but once was tre

Authority without wisdom is like a heavy ax without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish.

If what I do prove well, it won't advance. They'll say it's stolen, or else it was by chance.

Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending.

Youth is the time of getting middle age of improving and old age of spending.

Sweet words are like honey a little may refresh but too much gluts the stomach.

If ever two were one then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife then thee.

There is no object that we see no action that we do no good that we enjoy no evil that we feel or fear but we may make some spiritual advantage of all: and he that makes such improvement is wise as well as pious.

Authority without wisdom is like a heavy axe without an edge fitter to bruise than to polish.

If we had no winter the spring would not be so pleasant if we did not sometimes taste of adversity prosperity would not be so welcome.

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."]

O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,That draws oblivion's curtains over kings;Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,Their names without a record are forgot,Their parts, their ports, their pomps all laid in th' dustNor wit nor gold, nor buildings scape time's rust;But he whose name is graved in the white stoneShall last and shine when all of these are gone.

If we had no winter the spring would not be so pleasant.

The Author To Her BookThou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,Who after birth did'st by my side remain,Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,Who thee abroad exposed to public view,Made thee in 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,The visage was so irksome in my sight,Yet being mine own, at length affection wouldThy 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 stretcht 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 home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find.In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam.In critic'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 send thee out of door.

I am obnoxious to each carping tongue/ Who says my hand a needle better fits./ A poet's pen all scorn I should thus wrong/ For such despite they cast on female wits;/ If what I do prove well, it won't advance,/ They'll say it's stolen, or else, it was by chance.