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My age I will not once lament, / But sing, my time so near is spent.

Anne Bradstreet

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Anne Bradstreet
Age: 60 †
Born: 1612
Born: March 20
Died: 1672
Died: September 16
Poet
Writer
Ann Dudley
Ann Dudley Bradstreet
Anne Dudley Bradstreet
Anne Dudley
Sing
Age
Time
Lament
Near
Spent

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If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
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But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.
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Satan, that great angler, hath his sundry baits for sundry tempers of men, which they all catch greedily at, but few perceive the hook till it be too late.
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If ever wife was happy in a man, compare with me, ye women if you can.
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Wisdom with an inheritance is good, but wisdom without an inheritance is better than an inheritance without wisdom.
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That when we live no more, We may live ever
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Authority without wisdom is like a heavy ax without an edge -- fitter to bruise than polish.
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The stones and trees, insensible to time, / Nor age nor wrinkle on their front are seen / If Winter come, and greenness then do fade / A Spring returns, and they more youthful made / But man grows old, lies down, remains where once he's laid.
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I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold or all the riches that the East doth hold.
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My love is such that Rivers cannot quench, Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence. Thy love is such I can no way repay, The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
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My hope and treasure lies above
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Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.
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It is reported of the peacock that priding himself in his gay feathers he ruffles them up but spying his black feet he soon lets fall his plumes. So he that glories in his gifts and adornings should look upon his corruptions, and that will damp his high thoughts.
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Youth is the time of getting, middle age of improving, and old age of spending.
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If what I do prove well, it won't advance. They'll say it's stolen, or else it was by chance.
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We must, therefore, be here as strangers and pilgrims, that we may plainly declare that we seek a city above.
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Wickedness comes to its height by degrees. He that dares say of a less sin, Is it not a little one? will ere long say of a greater, Tush, God regards it not!
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If we had not winter, the spring would not be so pleasant if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
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Art can do much, but this maxim's most sure/A weak or wounded brain admits no cure.
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I am obnoxious to each carping tongue who says my hand a needle better fits.
Anne Bradstreet