 | Poems |  |
To the Reader.
Reader, thou mayst without affrightment lookWithin the pages of this guiltlesse Book;
For here no Satyr, masquing in disguise,
Amongst these leaves in Ambuscado lies:
No Snake does lurk amongst these flowers, to cast
Her poyson forth, and mens faire honours blast;
And though some staine the paper, when they write,
And so defile, and sully its chaste white
With lines of lust, that to wipe out that sin,
It even wants white to do its penance in;
Yet I no Goats bloud in my ink will spill,
To make loose lines flow from my tainted Quill;
No soot or gall I'll mingle, to possesse
My words with an invective bitternesse,
Although (perchance) to make them seeme more tart,
I may some salt to season them impart:
No, no, the wooll o'th' Lamb I'll only take,
And that my principall'st Ingredient make:
So that what ere my teeming Pen shall vent,
Shall, though not wittie, yet be innocent.
T. P.
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