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Anne Bradstreet – Prologue

Albert Lynch, The letter, 1890 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.Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greekwho lisp’d at first, in …

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