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The Works in Verse and Prose of Nicholas Breton

For the First Time Collected and Edited: With Memorial-Introduction, Notes and Illustrations, Glossarial Index, Facsimilies, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart. In Two Volumes

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THE PREFACE.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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THE PREFACE.

[_]

This preface, omitted from the edition used here (1582), has been interpolated from the 1577 edition.

My friend, who so thou bee, that faine wouldst buy this booke,
To passe away the time thereon, in ydle times to looke:
If so thou fyndste that like thee not, yet pardon graunt to mee,
And wish me from thy harte no worse, then I wish vnto thee.
Against my will it shall be much, if many I offende
With these rude rymes which I haue made vnto none other ende,
But as I sayde before, for want of other glee,
For pleasaunt heads to looke vpon, when they at leysure bee.
But some there are, I must confesse, gainst whom in great despight
Some running rymes, which here you see, I chaunced to indight.
But such I count my deadly foes: and such one if thou bee
That buiest my boke, then take the same in deepe despight of thee.
But if you be my friend, and take all in good parte
That there you fynde: and thinke it is for want of better arte,
Then here with right good will I offer it to thee,
And doe but thanke me for my paynes, it is ynough for mee.

lxiii

Of troth I promise yee, tis not for want of will,
That rudely thus in rymes I run, but want of better skill.
For if that I had Ouid's pen, ech worde in printe to place,
Or Homer's exercyse I had, to giue my verse a grace,
Or Tullie's Eloquence to talke, as I in minde thought best,
Or Aristotle's pregnant wit, that passeth all the rest,
Some prety peece of worke perhaps then moughtst thou fynde
Among so many mery toyes, that mought content thy minde.
But tush, my beetle brayne can no such fruictes bring forth;
My verses are but rugged rimes, and therefore little worth.
My head vnhooded yet, I ready am to flye
At every little paltrye bird, that goeth whisking by.
I neuer haue respect to any kinde of Game,
Like to the hooded Hauke that, kepte a long while tame,
When that he Game doth spring, she knowes it by the whurre,
And then, to make a wing thereat, she ginnes of[f] fyst to sturre.
But till the Game be sprong, on fyst she pearcheth still,
But I (God wot) to choose my game haue no such kinde of skill.
I stryke at what I may, and geue God thankes for all,
And stande contented with the same, till better doth befall.
And glad I am sometime to pray vpon a Byrde,
I haue no wit to waye the best, but euery worthelesse worde
I ready am in ryme to put, although my reason be
But small (God wot), and that too small, as you may plainly see.
But since you see my simple head vnhooded (as it is),
Accept the symple fruict therof, and be content with this.
Vntill I haue the skill to flye at better Game,
Which when I kill, you shall be sure to taste some of the same.
But if ye now disdayne these Byrdes, whereon I pray,
With better game hereafter I perhaps will flye away.
And lyke a very Churle, then will I parte with none,
But feede vpon the best thereof vnto myself alone,
Where few or none shall see, what foode I feede vpon,
No, nor yet where I hyde the same, till all be spente and gone.
Wherefore, my friende, I say, if so thou doest desyre
More of my workes, and wouldst not haue the rest throwne in the fyre,
Skorne not these ragged rymes, but rather soone amend,
What so thou fyndst that likes thee not, and so I make an ende.
Wishing thee well to fare, if so thou be my friend,
But if my foe, then ill and worse, and so agayne I end.
Finis.