ANd now my Book, let it not stop thy Flight, That thy just Author, is not Lord, or Knight. I can define my self: and have the Art Still to present one face, and still one Heart. But for nine years some Great ones cannot see What they have been, nor know they what to bee. What though I have no Rattles to my name, Do'st hold a simple Honestie no Fame? Or art thou such a stranger to the Times, Thou canst not know my Fortunes from my Crimes. Goe forth, and fear not: some will gladly bee Thy learned friends, whom I did never see. Nor shouldst thou fear thy welcom: thy small Price Cannot undo'em, though they pay Excise. Thy Bulk's not great: it will not much distresse Their emptie Pockets, but their Studies lesse. Th'art no Galeon, as Books of Burthen bee, Which can not ride but in a Librarie. Th'art a fine Thing and little: it may Chance Ladies will buy thee for a new Romance. Oh how I'le envy Thee! when thou art spread In the bright Sun-shine of their Eyes, and read With Breath of Amber, Lips of Rose, that lend Perfumes vnto thy Leaves, shal never spend: When from their white hands they shall let thee fall Into their Bosomes, which I may not call Ought of Misfortune, Thou do'st drop to rest In a more pleasing place, and art more blest.

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.

Soli Deo Gloria.

Amen.