Coelum Terrae

There in some silken, soft Fold thou shalt lye Hid like their Love, or thy own Mysterie. Nor shouldst thou grieve thy Language is not fine, For it is not my Best, though it be Thine. I could have voyc'd thee forth in such a Dresse, The Spring had been a Slut to thy Expresse; Such as might file the rude, unpolish'd Age, And fix the Readers Soule to ev'ry Page: But I have us'd a course, and homely strain, Because it suits with Truth, which should be plain. Last, my dear Book, if any looke on Thee As on Three Suns, or some great Prodigie, And swear to a full point, I do deride All other Sects, to publish my own pride; Tell such they lie, and since they love not Thee, Bid them goe learn some High-shoe heresie. Nature is not so simple, but shee can Procure a solid Reverence from man; Nor is my Pen so lightly Plum'd that I Should serve Ambition with her Majestie. 'Tis Truth makes me come forth, & having writ This her short Scaene, I would not stifle it: For I have call'd it Childe, and I had rather See't torn by them, than strangl'd by the Father.