University of Virginia Library

To the Reader.

It may be (Reader) I may gall those men,
Whose golden thoughts think no man dare them touch;
It may be (too) my fearelesse ayre-plume-pen,
May rouse that sluggish watch, whose tongues are such,
As are controll'd by feare or gold too much:
Yet were Apelles heere, he could not paint
Forth perfectly the worlds deformities;
For as the troubled mind, whose sad complaint
Still tumbles forth, halfe breathed accenties,
Th' Idea doth confuse and chaoize:
So will the Chaos of vp-heaped sinne
Confound his braine, that takes in hand to lay
A platforme plainly forth, of all (that in
This Pluto-visag'd-world) hell doth bewray,
When death or hell, doth worke it liues decay:
So perfect is our imperfectionesse,
For imperfection is sinnes perfectnesse.
Yet seeke I not to touch as he that seekes,
The publike defamation of some one;
Nor haue I spent my voide houres in three weeks,
To shew that I am vnto hatred prone;
For in particular I point at none:
Nay, I am forc'd my lines to limit in
Within the pale of generalitie;
For should I seeke by vnites to begin,
To point at all that in their sinne do lie;
And hunt for wickednesse aduisedly:
As well I (then) might go about to tell,
The perfect number of the ocean sands,
Or by Arithmetike goe downe to hell,
And number them that lie in horrors bands:
(Ne're to be ransom'd from the diuells hands.)
Who finds him touch't, may blame himself, not me:
And he will thanke me, doth himselfe know free.