University of Virginia Library



The Booke to the Reader.

In my commission I am charg'd to greet
And mildly kisse the hands of all I meet,
Which I must doe, or never more be seene
About the Fount of sacred Hippocreene.
Smooth sockt Thalia takes delight to dance
Ith' Schooles of Art, the doore of ignorance
Shee sets a Crosse on; Detractors shee doth scorne,
Yet kneeles to Censure, (so it be true borne)
I had rather fall into a Beadles hands
That reads, and with his reading understands;
Then some Plush-Midas, that can read no further
But Bees? whose penning? mew, this man doth murther
A writers credit and wrong'd poesie
(Like a rich Diamond dropt into the Sea)
Is by him lost for ever, quite through read me,
Or 'mongst wast paper into Pastboard knead me,
Presse me to death, so tho your churlish hands
Rob me of life, Ile save my paper lands
For my next heire, who with Poetick breath
May in sad Elegie record my death.
If so: I wish my Epitaph may be
Onely three words, Opinion murdered me.
Liber Lectori Candido.