Puritans believed in a plain unadorned lifestyle with few possessions and a strong devotion to God. These beliefs show up in their writing. Puritan Plain Style

Elements of Plain Style Plain Style=spare, simple, straightforward Short words, direct statements, references to everyday objects Biblical references appear frequently, they would have known their Bible backwards and forwards They believed all writing should be used to glorify God—anything else was considered sinful (especially fiction writing) Writing should clearly express useful or religious ideas

Anne Bradstreet 1612-1672 Arrived with her husband in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1630 when she was only eighteen. Both continents actually claim her as their own. She raised eight children.

Anne Bradstreet Anne wrote for herself, not for publication. In 1650, her brother-in-law, John Woodbridge, arranged for the publication in England of a collection of her scholarly poems, The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, By a Gentlewoman of Those Parts. Generally considered to be the first collection of original poetry written in colonial America. The book examined the rights of women to express themselves.

Anne Bradstreet Bradstreet’s later poems, such as “To My Dear and Loving Husband,” are more personal, expressing her feelings about the joys and difficulties of everyday Puritan life. In one she wrote about her thoughts before giving birth. In another, she wrote about the death of a grandchild. Bradstreet’s poetry reflects the Puritan’s knowledge of the stories and language of the Bible, as well as their concern for the relationship between earthly and heavenly life. Her work also exhibits some of the characteristics of the French and English poetry of her day.

To My Dear and Loving Husband If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee; If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me ye women if you can. I prize thy love more than whole Mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East doth hold. My love is such that Rivers cAnneot 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. Then while we live, in love let's so persever, That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Lines upon the Burning of Our House In silent night when rest I took, For sorrow neer I did not look, I waken'd was with thundring nois And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice. That fearfull sound of fire and fire, Let no man know is my Desire. I, starting up, the light did spye, And to my God my heart did cry To strengthen me in my Distresse And not to leave me succourlesse. Then coming out beheld a space, The flame consume my dwelling place. And, when I could no longer look, I blest his Name that gave and took, That layd my goods now in the dust: Yea so it was, and so 'twas just. It was his own: it was not mine; Far be it that I should repine.

He might of All justly bereft, But yet sufficient for us left He might of All justly bereft, But yet sufficient for us left. When by the Ruines oft I past, My sorrowing eyes aside did cast, And here and there the places spye Where oft I sate, and long did lye. Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest; There lay that store I counted best: My pleasant things in ashes lye, And them behold no more shall I. Under thy roof no guest shall sitt, Nor at thy Table eat a bitt. No pleasant tale shall 'ere be told, Nor things recounted done of old. No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee, Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee. In silence ever shalt thou lye; Adieu, Adeiu; All's vanity.

Then streight I gin my heart to chide, And didst thy wealth on earth abide? Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust, The arm of flesh didst make thy trust? Raise up thy thoughts above the skye That dunghill mists away may flie. Thou hast an house on high erect Fram'd by that mighty Architect, With glory richly furnished, Stands permanent tho' this bee fled. It's purchased, and paid for too By him who hath enough to doe. A Prise so vast as is unknown, Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own. Ther's wealth enough, I need no more; Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store. The world no longer let me Love, My hope and Treasure lyes Above.

The Author to Her Book Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain, Who after birth did'st by my side remain, Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true, Who thee abroad exposed to public view, Made thee in rags, halting to th' press to trudge, Where errors were not lessened (all may judge). At thy return my blushing was not small, My rambling brat (in print) should mother call. I cast thee by as one unfit for light, The visage was so irksome in my sight, Yet being mine own, at length affection would Thy blemishes amend, if so I could. I washed thy face, but more defects I saw, And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw. I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet, Yet still thou run'st more hobbling than is meet. In better dress to trim thee was my mind, But nought save home-spun cloth, i' th' house I find. In this array, 'mongst vulgars may'st thou roam. In critic's hands, beware thou dost not come, And take thy way where yet thou art not known. If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none; And for thy mother, she alas is poor, Which caused her thus to send thee out of door. 

Edward Taylor 1642 - 1729 Worked as a teacher in England Came to Boston in 1668; attended Harvard and graduated in 1671 After graduation became the minister and physician in a small frontier community in Westfield, Mass Married and five of his eight children died in infancy His wife died at a very young age He remarried and had five or six more children

Edward Taylor Regarded as the best North American colonial poet. His poetry was of a personal nature, he used them as meditations before writing and delivering his sermons. He only allowed two stanzas to be published during his lifetime. In 1833, one of his descendants gave Taylor’s writings to Yale University, and in 1939, The Political Works of Edward Taylor was published. He uses extravagant comparisons, intellectual wit, and subtle argument to explore religious faith and affection

Huswifery Make me, O Lord, thy Spinning Wheele compleat;      Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee. Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate,      And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.      My Conversation make to be thy Reele,      And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.   Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine:      And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills: Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine.      Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills.      Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice,      All pinkt with Varnish't Flowers of Paradise. Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will,      Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory; My Words and Actions, that their shine may fill      My wayes with glory and thee glorify.      Then mine apparell shall display before yee      That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.

Upon a Wasp Chilled with Cold The bear that breathes the northern blast Did numb, torpedo-like, a wasp Whose stiffened limbs encramped, lay bathing In Sol's warm breath and shine as saving, Which with her hands she chafes and stands Rubbing her legs, shanks, thighs, and hands. Her pretty toes, and fingers' ends Nipped with this breath, she out extends Unto the sun, in great desire To warm her digits at that fire. Doth hold her temples in this state Where pulse doth beat, and head doth ache. Doth turn, and stretch her body small, Doth comb her velvet capital. As if her little brain pan were A volume of choice precepts clear. As if her satin jacket hot Contained apothecary's shop Of nature's receipts, that prevails To remedy all her sad ails, As if her velvet helmet high Did turret rationality. She fans her wing up to the wind As if her pettycoat were lined, With reason's fleece, and hoists sails And humming flies in thankful gales Unto her dun curled palace hall Her warm thanks offering for all.

Lord, clear my misted sight that I May hence view Thy divinity, Some sparks whereof thou up dost hasp Within this little downy wasp In whose small corporation we A school and a schoolmaster see, Where we may learn, and easily find A nimble spirit bravely mind Her work in every limb: and lace It up neat with a vital grace, Acting each part though ne'er so small Here of this fustian animal. Till I enravished climb into The Godhead on this ladder do, Where all my pipes inspired upraise An heavenly music furred with praise.

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