The Argument of the Frontispiece.

Ten distinct Squares here seen apart, Are joyn’d in one by Cutters art.

1 Old Democritus under a tree, Sits on a stone with book on knee; About him hang there many features, Of Cats, Dogs and such like creatures; Of which he makes Anatomy, The seat of black choler to see. Over his head appears the skie, And Saturn Lord of melancholy.

2 To th’ left a landskip of Jealousie, Presents it self unto thine eye. A Kingfisher, a Swan, an Hern, Two fighting Cocks you may discern, Two roaring Bulls each other hie, To assault concerning Venery. Symboles are these; I say no more, Conceive the rest by that’s afore.

3 The next of Solitariness, A portraiture doth well express, By sleeping dog, cat: Buck and Do, Hares, Conies in the desart go: Bats, Owls the shady bowers over, In melancholy darkness hover. Mark well: If ’t be not as’t should be, Blame the bad Cutter, and not me.

4 Ith’ under Columne there doth stand Inamorato with folded hand; Down hangs his head, terse and polite, Some dittie sure he doth indite. His lute and books about him lie, As symptomes of his vanity. If this do not enough disclose, To paint him, take thy self by th’ nose.

5 Hypocondriacus leans on his arm, Winde in his side doth him much harm, And troubles him full sore God knows, Much pain he hath and many woes. About him pots and glasses lie, Newly brought from’s Apothecary. This Saturn’s aspects signifie, You see them portraid in the skie.

6 Beneath them kneeling on his knee, A Superstitious man you see: He fasts, prays, on his Idol fixt, Tormented hope and fear betwixt. For hell perhaps he takes more pain, Then thou dost Heaven it self to gain. Alas poor Soul, I pitie thee, What stars incline thee so to be?

7 But see the Madman rage down right With furious looks, a gastly sight. Naked in chains bound doth he lie, And roars amain he knows not why? Observe him; for as in a glass, Thine angry portraiture it was. His picture keep still in thy presence, Twixt him and thee, ther’s no difference.

8 9 Borage and Hellebor fill two scenes, Soveraign plants to purge the veins Of melancholy, and chear the heart, Of those black fumes which make it smart; To clear the Brain of misty fogs, Which dull our senses, and Soul clogs. The best medicine that ere God made For this malady, if well assaid.

10 Now last of all to fill a place, Presented is the Authors face; And in that habit which he wears, His Image to the world appears. His minde no art can well express, That by his writings you may guess. It was not pride, nor yet vain glory, (Though others do it commonly)

Made him do this: if you must know, The Printer would needs have it so. Then do not frown or scoffe at it, Deride not, or detract a whit. For surely as thou dost by him, He will do the same again. Then look upon’t, behold and see, As thou lik’st it, so it likes thee.

And I for it will stand in view, Thine to command, Reader Adiew.