A mirrour of loue which such light doth giue, That all men may learne, howe to loue and liue. Compiled and set furth by Myles Hogarde |
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To the Reader. |
 | A mirrour of loue |  |
To the Reader.
Good readers al, whose chaunce shalbe,This booke to heare or reade,
Where lackes in dede, fine eloquence
I wrote as wit doth leede,
Yet let not the authours rudenesse,
Thys good matter deface,
For though the authour simple be,
The matter may take place.
May chaunce some man wyll thinke and say,
That great pittie it was,
That suche a treatise as thys is,
Shoulde thus so rudely passe.
I wyl aske them this question:
If they a stone shoulde fynde,
That were of price most preciouse,
And not wrought to his kynde,
Would they then cast that stone awaye,
And esteme it right nought?
Or would they seeke all meanes they might
To have it purely wrought?
Yf they should answere vnto this,
What thinke ye they would say?
They woulde not be so madde I trow,
To cast that stone away.
Euen so this matter, which in dede
Is very precious,
Yet not wrought to the purpose wel,
I do confesse it thus.
Haply some man to me wyll saye,
In matter which I can not make,
But rather doth it marre.
My calling is not bokes to write,
Nor no faultes to reproue,
But to folow my busynesse,
As wisedome would me moue.
Before (say they) when men dyd preache,
Whiche artificers were,
They were not calde therto, say you,
Gods worde wyl them not beare.
But now can ye suffer a man,
Which no learning hath,
Against his calling as it were
To write vpon our faith?
To them do I answere againe,
My selfe for to defende,
If Gods precept dyd me forbyd,
No bookes I would haue pende.
But God forbyds al men to preache,
The which he hath not sent:
So hath he not all men to write,
This is most euident.
But here my booke I do commit,
To those that learned be,
If faulte they finde it to correct,
As therin cause they se,
And pardon here, of them I craue,
For this mine enterprise.
I only dyd intende therby,
My wittes to exercise.
My writing doth expresse,
Yet doth it serue in ydle times
To exchewe ydlenesse,
Now trusting I shal not offende,
In this my simple dede,
I wyl now by the helpe of grace,
In my purpose procede.
FINIS.
| A mirrour of loue | |