Prologue

Bradstreet’s “Prologue” was written as a preface to the other poems in her collection; as such, it introduces her persona to her readers. The poem also presents an argument about why she desires to speak and is worth being listened to in a world where women did not often have permission or encouragement to communicate their ideas. Her poem negotiates a space between her deference to male writers and her insistence that she, too, might deserve a place on the shelf next to them. 

She begins the poem with an allusion to ancient Roman poet Virgil’s epic, the Aeneid. Virgil begins with his intent to “sing” of “arms and the man” (Virgil. Aeneid, 19 BCE. Book 1, Line 1); his long poem describes Trojan War hero Aeneas fleeing Troy and taking his people to Italy, where he became the founder of Rome. In contrast, Bradstreet states that she will not “sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, / Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun” (Lines 1-2). Instead, her work is “mean” (Line 3), or small in scope. She is not in competition with the famous “Poets and Historians” (Line 5), and her “obscure lines” (Line 6) do not threaten to “dim their [greater] worth” (Line 6). This first stanza sets a tone that is self-deprecating but subtly assertive. Bradstreet hedges her bets: Her words can’t reach Virgil’s level, but she can inform the audience that she knows the work of this renowned author and intends to write anyway. 

Bradstreet asserts that her position as a woman will not decrease her aspirations to be a poet because she has been inspired by those who came before her. When she reads the “Great Bartas’ sugar’d lines” (Line 8), she is both admiring and “envious” (Line 7) of his talent. Guillaume du Bartas was a celebrated French poet whose Divine Weeks (1578-1584) was much admired by Bradstreet, Philip Sidney, and John Milton. Du Bartas had been translated into English in 1605 and proved so vastly popular that the volume was reprinted in 1641. Bradstreet wrote an early elegy about him. Her reference to him in “Prologue” hearkens to the collection’s poem sequences about the four elements, the four seasons, and the four ancient monarchies that mimic du Bartas’s style and forms. So while she does “grudge [Bartas his] over-fluent store” (Lines 9-10), she still uses his example, although her version of it is “simple […] according to [her] skill” (Line 12). Again, while this seems to keep the expectations of the reader low, it also shows that Bradstreet was extremely knowledgeable of poetry, even within her contemporary sphere. 

Bradstreet then likens herself to those who are either in training or have some impediment. First, she notes that an audience would never expect advanced argumentation “from [a] School-boy’s tongue” (Line 13) nor expect pretty music from a broken instrument. She insists that her “foolish, broken, blemished Muse” (Line 16) has inspired efforts that are similar to those of these inept communicators. Moreover, “Nature made [her gift] irreparable” (Line 18), impressing upon the reader once more that poetry does not come naturally. Unlike the ancient Greek orator Demosthenes, who taught himself to overcome a speech impediment that he was bullied for, Bradstreet is unsure that she can surpass her obstacles. During his early life, many dismissed Demosthenes as having a “weak and wounded brain” (Line 24), but he was driven to improve, something that would have been impossible if he hadn’t the intelligence to be so disciplined. While she claims that “no Art is able” (Line 17) to improve her own work, Bradstreet belies this self-deprecation with her observations of Demosthenes defeating his adversaries.

Bradstreet’s tone here gets feistier. She is not willing to be dismissed, even if she is “obnoxious” (Line 25)—a word that meant “vulnerable” or “helpless” in the 17th century—to the “carping tongues” (Line 25) who suggest that “[her] hand a needle better fits” (Line 26) than “a Poet’s pen” (Line 27). The bullied Bradstreet aligns herself with Demosthenes and also with women confined to the domestic sphere of fabric making, who nevertheless comment on their world through oral tradition. Many do not think that women’s ideas are worthwhile and devalue them: “[S]uch despite they cast on female wits” (Line 28), thinking them incapable of writing well, assuming their work “stol’n, or else it was by chance” (Line 30). They will not “advance” (Line 29) women’s creative work but instead bury it. 

However, Bradstreet believes that she could change perceptions about gender and society. To discuss the unfairness of underestimating women, Bradstreet turns to “the antique Greeks” (Line 31), whom she sees as more laudatory to women, particularly women artists. They envisioned the Muses as female and, further, made poetry “Calliope’s own child” (Line 33)—the daughter of the Muse of eloquence and epic poetry, ostensibly the highest literary form in Western culture. This reference connects Bradstreet to Calliope as a mother and a Muse (Bradstreet calls herself the “tenth Muse” in her collection’s title). The critics of women artists will suggest, Bradstreet ruefully notes, that the Greeks “play the fools and lie” (Line 36). She rightfully feels frustrated at having to pretend to be less intelligent than she really is.

In the next stanza, she changes her tone, attempting to ease her polemic. “Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are” (Line 37), she insists, while conceding, “Men […] still excel” (Line 38). She warns that “it is but vain unjustly to wage war” (Line 40). In other words, she’s not implying that men aren’t the best poets; she is simply suggesting that women deserve to be “grant[ed] some small acknowledgement” (Line 42). She concludes by asking for a blessing of a “thyme or Parsley wreath” (Line 46) from those more excellent or famous in the craft. This reference is to the laurel wreaths bestowed in ancient Rome on men of exceeding talent or ability; she is not demanding a wreath of the same plant but one more suitable to women, whose association with the kitchen makes the herb parsley a more fitting honor.

After all, she teases in her last note, “This mean and unrefined ore of mine / Will make your glist’ring gold but more to shine” (Line 48). While this seems like a capitulation, it is a tiny one from a poet rebelling against the conventions restricting her. In fact, she attempts everything in this poem (and the subsequent collection) that she said she would or could not do: She has “[sung] of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings, / Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun” (Lines 1-2). She is the founder of her own craft, self-crowned as the 10th Muse, and willing to fight for her voice to be heard. The past and future kings of poetry must, by the end of the poem, recognize her as establishing her own commonwealth.