University of Virginia Library

APOSTROPHE To the AUTHOR.

You Sir, who study, and sport too, this way
Whose spare hours heaven, and whose serious day;
Whose two week Sermons are to others aim;
Whose whole week-life is to that your own claim.
Who preach both waies, b'Example and by Rule,
Whose life's a Sermon, and whose house a School;
Who your own self do, without hire, supply
With breath and patterne, this twin Curacy;
Who make each day the Lords, whilst there are some
Do grudge him one in seven; who make your home
To be his pious house, whilst some there are
Who scarce allow him his own house for prayer;
You who do read, and meditate, and live
Scripture, and thereby midst of world's frowns thrive;
You know, they who on Gospels first word look,
Learn from that first word, this is all the book.
They who proceed and search on, find that this
Is only Scripture, all else writ amiss;
They who wade further yet, know there's not one
Word besides this, This is the Word alone.
And yet though nothing else is Book, but what
God himself made, the Man not that he wrote;
Though nothing else be Scripture, but pretence,
Because if not the same with this, not sense;
Though nothing else be Word, 'cause Parrots may,
Without this, talk to as good ends as we;
Yet as those birds are said to come more near
To what we speak, then other Foules o'th' air,
Because they imitate our Cadencies,
So we do more, speak when w'approach to thee.
Blest be the charity then, of your wise choice,
Not to vex us with an unmatter'd Noise;
Since though in hundred sheets of paper, he
Has silent been, who does not edifie.
Since without this, though Stentor he out roare,
He hath said lesse then th' mad Bul, or wild Boar;
Since without this, each other book's a crime;
It robs my purse, and what's more deer, my time:
Blest be your guidance too, that t'all were giv'n,
Both to discourse, and write, and Print for heav'n;
He that writes next, this is his praise or curse
He makes the Reader if not better, worse.
But friend, you often aske why 'tis that I
Preach to th' next ear, and not to th' distant eye?
Why 'tis that I wh'ave taskt my self a scheame
In learnings own behalf, forbear that Theame,
Pray ask no more; how can you with my heir
Were come to th' birth, when there's no midwife near?
Copy't once more, and tel the brave Lord N
Be he Mecænas, and I'wil write Then.