The Address to the Book

And now, my book, do not let this stop your flight: Your rightful author is no lord or knight. I can define myself, and have the art To show one constant face, one constant heart. Yet for nine years some great ones cannot see What they have been, nor know what they should be. What if no rattles decorate my name? Do you think simple honesty no fame? Or are you such a stranger to these times You cannot tell my fortunes from my crimes? Go out, and fear not: some will gladly be Your learned friends, though never seen by me. Do not fear your welcome: your small price Cannot undo them, though they pay excise. Your bulk is small: it will not much distress Their empty pockets, and their studies less. You are no galleon, like books of burden, That cannot berth except within a library. You are a fine and little thing: by chance Ladies may buy you as a new romance. How I shall envy you when you are spread In the bright sunshine of their eyes and read With amber breath and lips of rose, which lend Perfumes to your leaves that shall never end; When from their white hands they shall let you fall Into their bosoms, which I cannot call A stroke of ill fortune: you fall to rest In a more pleasing place, and are more blessed.

There, in some soft, silken fold, you shall lie, Hidden like their love, or your own mystery. Do not grieve that your language is not fine: It is not my best, although it is yours. I could have voiced you in so fine a dress That spring would seem a slattern by your image; Such words could polish this rude, unpolished age, And fasten the reader’s soul to every page. But I have used a coarse and homely strain Because it suits with Truth, which should be plain. Lastly, dear book, if any look on you As on three suns or some great prodigy, And swear outright that I deride All other sects to publish my own pride, Tell them they lie; and since they do not love you, Bid them go learn some rustic heresy. Nature is not so simple: she can Command a solid reverence from humanity. Nor is my pen so lightly feathered that I Should serve ambition with her majesty. Truth makes me come forth; having written This short scene of hers, I would not stifle it. I have called it child, and would rather see It torn by them than strangled by its father.

Glory to God alone.

Amen.