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Poem by Anne Bradstreet


Upon a Fit of Sickness


Twice ten years old not fully told
since nature gave me breath,
My race is run, my thread spun,
lo, here is fatal death.
All men must die, and so must I;
this cannot be revoked.
For Adams sake this word God spake
when he so high provoked.
Yet live I shall, this lifes but small,
in place of highest bliss,
Where I shall have all I can crave,
no life is like to this.
For whats this but care and strife
since first we came from womb?
Our strength doth waste, our time doth haste,
and then we go to th tomb.
O bubble blast, how long canst last?
that always art a breaking,
No sooner blown, but dead and gone,
evn as a word thats speaking.
O whilst I live this grace me give,
I doing good may be,
Then deaths arrest I shall count best,
because its Thy decree;
Bestow much cost theres nothing lost,
to make salvation sure,
O greats the gain, though got with pain,
comes by profession pure.
The race is run, the field is won,
the victorys mine I see;
Forever known, thou envious foe,
the foil belongs to thee.



Anne Bradstreet


Anne Bradstreet's other poems:
  1. To Her Most Honoured Father Thomas Dudley Esq; These Humbly Presented
  2. For the Restoration of My Dear Husband from a Burning Ague, June, 1661
  3. Deliverance from a Fit of Fainting
  4. For Deliverance from a Feaver
  5. Upon Some Distemper of Body


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