To sing of Wars, of Captains, and of Kings,
Of Cities founded, Common-wealths begun,
For my mean Pen are too superior things;
Or how they all, or each their dates have run,
Let Poets and Historians set these forth.
My obscure lines shall not so dim their worth.

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 . . .

Here, the young, gentle-born poet introduces herself in a humble and self-deprecating manner, telling her readers that her efforts are not to be compared to those of the great male poets and historians of great matters. Describing the inability of the poet, her “blemished Muse,” and her request for the indulgence of the reader are common tropes in poetry. Having set the bar of expectations low, if the poet can then engage and impress the reader, the impact is all the greater.

Nor can I, like that fluent sweet-tongued Greek
Who lisp’d at first, in future times speak plain.
By Art he gladly found what he did seek,
A full requital of his striving pain.
Art can do much, but this maxim’s most sure:
A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.

Here Bradstreet speaks of Demosthenes, reputedly the greatest orator among the ancient Greeks, who overcame his lisp by filling his mouth with pebbles to practice his elocution. She is saying that no amount of art or practice can overcome flawed material in her case. Here, she is referring to her gender, from which, by the conventions of the day, no one should expect great art. She is a woman, and that admits no cure. She uses the conventions of the day to subvert them later in the poem.

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 stol’n, or else it was by chance.

Here Bradstreet makes her meaning plain. She is anticipating and addressing her critics. Indeed, her relative who published her poems in London without her knowledge felt obligated to vouch for the character of Anne Bradstreet (born Dudley) as a dutiful wife and mother whose poetry was composed in her spare time. She anticipates that even if her poems are good, her critics will allege that she plagiarized them or that her success was due to chance.

But sure the antique Greeks were far more mild,
Else of our Sex, why feigned they those nine
And poesy made Calliope’s own child?
So ’mongst the rest they placed the Arts divine,
But this weak knot they will full soon untie.
The Greeks did nought but play the fools and lie.

Here Bradstreet cleverly turns the tables on her anticipated male critics by reminding them that the classical muse of poetry is female, as are the muses of the other arts. (Touché.) As this is an irrefutable and significant point scored in her favor, the only recourse of her critics will be to say “the Greeks but play the fool and lie.” But this is after the Renaissance, and no learned person would deny the excellence of classical culture and the leadership of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the literary arts. She has her critics cornered!

Let Greeks be Greeks, and Women what they are.
Men have precedency and still excel;
It is but vain...