The Peasant History of Albino and Bellama, Dedication – Poem 2

The Peasant History of Albino and Bellama · Dedication – Poem 2

TO THOSE WORTHY HERO'S OF OVR Age, whoſe noble Breaſts are we… and watred with the deaw of Helicon, N. W. wiſheth ever-flouriſhing Laurels.

YOu noble Laureats, whoſe able Quills

In framing Odes, do drean the ſacred rills

Of Aganippe dry, within whoſe breſts

The Syre of Aeſculapius ſafely reſts;

And all the Muſes Temple, daigne your rayes

To cheare the meaſures of an infant Bayes,

Spread forth the Banners of your worths to ſheild

His yonger Muſe, unable yet to weild

Armes, 'gainſt the Monſters of this Critick age,

Envie, detraction, and Saturnine rage.

I to my ſelfe aſſume not double worth,

Or that my teeming phanſie can bring forth

Words to make wonderſtand amaz'd, doetrye

To vindicate the breath of Poeſie.

In ſuch a thought I'me ſilent, but becauſe

I've heard invectives belched from the jawes

Of Nil-ſcientes, whoſe audacious bragges

Have rays'd a thunder like a ſhoale of dagges

T' affright endevours:

In writing which, if my weake ſtudies hit

Of any fanſie ſpeaking worth or wit,

If I have ſnatched any fainting Muſe

From the black jawes of envie and abuſe,

Shooting a ſoule into her, and new breath,

Maugre thoſe tongues that doomed her to death.

Eccho forth thankes unto coy Daphnes lover

(About whoſe Fane the ſacred Nine doe hover)

Whoſe kindneſſe ſmild on my uncruſht deſignes,

And lockt a Muſe in my unworthy lines

Able to blunt the dar…s of envie, pare

The ſharpeſt hoofed Satyr, and with ayre

Shrill as the voyce of thunder, chide thoſe gaules,

That belch forth ſcandals and invective bawles:

Nay, he, befriending me above my merit,

Vnſeen of any, heav'd my winged ſpirit

T' a higher court than the Star-chamberis,

Where ſoules may ſurfet with immortall bliſſe.

And taught my phanſie in thoſe quiet ſlumbers,

What, waking, I have folded up in numbers,

To tell the brood of Critickes, that there are

Some few, or if not ſome, yet one, that dare

(Backed by your thrice-ſacred worths) expoſe

Theſe lines and letters to the ken of proſe.

The humble admirer of your Muſes N. W.

Il in ſonio inſonnadado.

WHhen (in the ſilent age of ſable night)

The ſilver way with Phaebes glimring light,

And her attendants was adornd, and when

Faſt ſlumbers ſcald the eyes of drowſie men,

I entred Morpheus Court, that Iv'ry port,

Whereat benighted phanſies paſſe that ſort

With reall good, ſleepe was the Ianitor,

Who let me in without one crum of Ore,

Into the ſpacious hall, whoſe darkſome flore,

With downie beds and quilts was paved ore,

Inſtead of Marble ſtones: here nuzzled both

The hated ſpawne of idleneſſe and ſloth,

Icilone and Phantaſo, the one

Wrapt in a mantle ſet with ſtarres and ſtones,

Checkerd with flowres, and trimd with antick ſhape…

Playing with children, feathets, flies and Apes,

Blowing up ſpittle bladders: and the other

Stretcht on the boſome of his quiet mother,

Folded in furres and feathers, would not ſtirre

To earne a penny, or to pleaſe you Sir

With cap and curtſie: wondring much, to me

The winged poſt came with an Embaſſee,

I, frighted with his ſtrange apparell, ſhrunke

Away, and cloſely into feathers ſunke.

He ſmiling ſayd, let not my ſtrange arraying,

Kinde youth, beget amazement, or diſmaying▪

Ile ſhow thee where in marſhald order ſtray

Whole troopes of Laureats enſphear'd with Bay,

Then ſpread his winged ſailes, and caught my haire,

Without a ſence of motion through the aire,

Conducting me, through where the Salamander

(If faith b'hiſtorlcall) does breath and wander,

Then throgh thoſe glorious orbs, enricht with gems,

The palaces of ſeven Diadems.

Then throgh the firmament, where glittring ſpangs,

Like blazing Topazes, in Chryſtal hangs,

Three ſtories higher was the Galupin

Where Iove was frolick with his goddy kin;

Hither was I uplifted, then mine eye

Beſprinkled was by nimble Mercurie,

With liquor, which with ſtrength did me endue

T' abide the preſence of th' immortall crue,

The whiſpring vaults I opened of my braine,

The counſels of the gods to entertaine,

And fearing memorie, with ſhort-liv'd chalke,

(Wanting the tongue of paper) writ their talke;

The Patron of Parnaſſus and the nine,

To IOVE preſented and the reſt divine,

Their ſuites with comely grace and majeſtie.

But Phoebus was the Oratour; Loe I,

Thy daughters undertooke to patronize,

Great Emperour of the Chriſtall ſpangled skies,

And ſhield their meaſures from the ſullen rage

Of envious ignorance this Criticke age;

(For none inveigh againſt Poetick meaſures,

But thoſe that never had Pandora's treaſures)

Yet ſuch a ſhoale of ignorants I finde,

'Tis thought the greater part oth' world is blinde,

That maugre all my ſcourges, in the dark

Againſt the Muſes they will ſnarle and bark.

Let winged-ſandald Hermes poſt to call

And ſummon them unto thy judgment Hall,

That you may know their rage is want of braines.

Hermes took poſt, and brought the ſilly traines,

Iove wav'd his ſcepter, and commanded huſh,

Then calles a gawdie peece of emptie pluſh,

And askt what hee could ſay 'gainſt Poetry?

Hah, hah, quoth he, and fleer'd with blinking eye,

I have a miſtreſſe (then begins a tale,

Which made Iove call for ſome Nectarean Ale,

To arme his eares 'gainſt non-ſence, and his ſide

'Gainſt laughters furie) has too much of pride,

Shee's faire, as is a wall new parg'd with lime,

Shee's wiſe enough; for age, ſhee's in her prime,

I vow her ſervice, but ſhee ſlights me, why?

Marry, I dave noveine in Poeſie,

But what I take on truſt, oth' ſecond hand,

Shee jeeres and ſayes, this cannot well be ſcand,

This has a foot too little, that too much,

This is a borrowd line, ſhe knowes't byth' touch,

Tells me the double Indies ſhall not gaine

Her love, without the ſmirke, Poetick vaine,

Deſpairing I againſt the Muſes rayle,

And wiſht my hands had cruſted been with flaile,

Then ſhould not I have needed Proxee-verſe,

T'have wonne a milk-mayd, neither coy nor terſe,

T…uſh, ſay I, Madam, this ſameragged crue

Ofrithming dizzards, are not worthy you.

Plato exil'd them from his common-weal,

Their tongues will flatter, and their fingers ſteale.

M…reſycophants, that for a trencher-bit,

Will ſweare y'ave beautie mixt with pureſt wit.

And if you anger them, will in a rage

Vnſay't, and raile gainſt you, your ſex, and age.

Hundredinvectives more, I often uſe

Againſt the Poet and his ſtrumpet Muſe;

But I proteſt, tis to diſſwade my Lady:

For had I wit, Phoebus ſhould be my Dady.

Then ſacred ſiſters I emplore your Bayes,

Make me a Bard, and Ile deſcant your prayſe.

No quoth the Muſes Helicon nere brookes

T…have ſervants which doe weare ſuch ſimple looks▪

So ſent him packing with a flea in's eare,

Apollo cald another to appeare,

A feeble braine, that at a gen'rall dye

Had got the ſable hue of infamie:

He buzzles like a buſtard in a winde,

And with his aio's ſtrikes the vulgar blinde,

In whom, if we beleeve Pythagoras,

I thinke the ſoule of Battus houſed was:

He is demanded why he thus does bawle

Gainſt ſoaring wits, not worms that earthly crawle?

Clothing his face with impudence, his lookes

With pride; and with high ſelfe-conceit (his bookes,

So are his words, he ſpeakes in print) why, why,

Have I not cauſe t'exclaime on Poe…ic?

I'me a Divine, not a fond pratling Poet,

I am a Preacher I would have you know it.

Peace arrogant, ſayes Hermes, elſe Ile drive

Thee quick into the black infernall hive.

There was a time when thou admir'dſt with praiſe

Each ſprig of Lawrell, ſlip of youthfull Bayes.

But Envie's maſter now, or th'cauſe of it

Is, thou nere hop'ſt t'attaine that height of wit.

Bur ſay the truth, (yet truth will ſcarce abide thee)

Are there not ſome that jeere and doe deride thee

In lofty meaſures, and thou wanting skill

To vindicate thy credit by thy quill?

Do'ſt ſcold? Quoth he, I doe acknowledge it,

I blam'd the Muſes, 'cauſe I wanted wit,

And darted ſcandals at Apollo's Lyre,

Yet pardon, mightie Aeſculapius Syre,

And yee bleſt goddeſſes, my grand offence,

And on your Altars Ile burne ſrankincenſe.

Nay, buildrich Trophies unto Poetrie.

Tis good to ſee a convert minde, ſtand by

Apollo ſayd; ſayes Vulcan by the Maſſe,

I have eſpyd a plumpe-cheekt bonnie laſſe,

She is a wrig I warrant, where's my wife?

Oh! tis a hell to live a coupled life.

Thus did the Black-ſmith mutter, till Apollo

Cited the damſell with a gentle hollo.

Vp comes the Margit with a mincing pace,

A Citie-ſtride, Court-garbe, and ſmirking face,

So curtſy'd to the gods, yet twas but ſhort.

Then ſayes Apollo, (meaning to make ſport)

What occupation uſe you, Art or Trade?

Are you a Virgine? Yes, a chamber-mayd

Forſooth I am, I have my virgine ſeale,

To honeſt Vulcan I dare make m'appeale,

Heel pawne his head, had I kept Venus roome,

Mars had not dub'd him with Actaeons doome.

A merry wench in faith ſayes Iove: yet ſtay,

To ſerious parle let's fall from wanton play,

You are accus'd, as one that does condemne

And boldly ſcoffe the Laurell Diadem.

I once, quoth ſhe, admir'd them all, untill

I found my prayſe returnd but traffique ill:

For when I prais'd, they prayſed me againe,

So I had onelyonly prayſes for my paine.

Then wittily I oftentimes would flout,

And ſay the Poets was a needie rout:

Of all profeſſions ſure it was the worſt,

Iuſt like the Cockatrice, ith' ſhell accurſt,

With many more, yet though our tongues did jarre,

Our quarrell ended in a lippy warre.

We kiſt, to friendſhip like the nurſe and child,

And there ſhe ſtopt: where at the heavens ſmild.

Then came a Serving-man, a blunt old knave,

That dar'd Parnaſſus with a ſawcie brave,

In youth ſayes he, I rim'd, and framed notes

To Pans choyce muſicke, & the ſheepheards …hroats,

And many a luſty bowle of creame have got

For Kates three brace of rimes, which was God wot,

But once remov'd from proſe, and for a ſong

The iron-hoofed Hobs 'bout me did throng,

But now old age my wit and fancie nips,

I gaule the Muſes with ſatyricke quips,

Yet might I with the Eagle caſt my Bill,

And gaine my youth, I would regaine my skill.

This done, the Purſevant Apollo poſts

T'Elizium, to call the Poets ghoſts,

That payd th'infernall Ferry-man his fee:

There ſaw I Homer, but he ſaw not mee,

Laſcivious Ovid, and Virgilius grave,

Satyricke Iuvenal, and Martial brave,

Splay-footed Plautus, limping Ennius,

Propertius, Horace, and Boethius.

Amongſt the Modernes came the Fairy Queene,

Old Geffrey, Sidney, Drayton, Randolph, Greene,

The double Beaumonde, Drummond, Browne,

Each had his chaplet, and his Ivie crowne.

How reſted yee amidſt thoſe gloomie ſhades?

Sayes Iupiter? ſee yee not other trades

Learnings and Sciences have conſtant ſprings,

Summers and Autumnes without winterings?

They'l have no hail-ſtormes, fleezie rain, nor froſt,

They'r kin to rimes: winter muſt not be loſt:

A pregnant witted Bard did ſilence breake,

Homer 'twas not, hee could not ſee to ſpeake.

Virgil it was not, he had got a wrench,

Nor B. nor M. for they had got a wench.

Ennius was lame, and much did feare his ſhins,

Horace was buſie with the kilder kins.

Ovid employd wirh his beloved Flea,

Old Geffrey's language was not fit for plea:

Draiton on's brains a new Moon Calfe was getting,

And teſtie Drummond could not ſpeake for fretting▪

I knew the Roſcians feature, not his name,

Yet tis engraven on the Shaulme of Fame;

With ſetled grace he boldly did advance

Father of gods, king of the large expanſe.

We oft have heard proud Envie belching forth

Fogs, miſts and fumes, t'cclipſe the metrick worth,

And know the teeming world did never nurſe

So great a miſchiefe as the Griticke curſe:

Our ſoules one minute have not reſted quiet,

Since carpes we know was Ignoramus diet.

If Wiſedomes Faecial call to the ſand,

We have revenge, our ſtandiſh is at hand.

That rights our wrongs, but gainſt Don Sillies railes

The fiſt is heav'd, for paper nought availes:

We ſate in counſell, did intend to ſue

With a petition to this noble crue,

The ſubſtance this, that ye would either give

Wit and diſcretion unto all that live,

Or make them Ideots, depriv'd of reaſon,

Elſe but to ſpeake, let it be counted treaſon.

But we appeale, great gods, tis now my theame,

To cleare from mud pure Aganippa's ſtreame:

Aſſiſt Pierides, maintaine your ſires

With greater care than can the Veſtals theirs,

Tis merely loſſe of time and papet both,

By refutation to chaſtiſe their ſloth.

Then I the juice of Helicon will ſup,

Not in nut-ſhell, but Colocaſſian cup,

Shall make my phanſie catch at nought but gems,

And wreath the Muſes browes with diadems.

Me thinkes this draught ſuch vertue does infuſe,

As if in every ſence there dwelt a Muſe,

A ſpirit of valour, to un-god great warre,

Should he but ſend a ramme; but to the barre,

Who knowes not Vaticinium does imply

In equall meaſures verſe and propheſie.

An inſpiration, a celeſtiall touch,

Such is the Poets raptures, Prophets ſuch:

Vates a Bard, and him that does preſage

Vaticinor poſſeſt with either rage.

Poema is a booke in numbers fram'd,

Faſt cemented with ſence, by working nam'd,

To which the choyceſt Oratour ſtands bare,

Poeſies does in a ſublimer aire,

Things humane and divine expoſe to view.

The firſt Philoſophie that Fame ere knew,

Was honourd with the name of Poetrie,

Enricht with rules of pure moralitie.

Reading inſtructions unto heathen men,

With more contentment than the Stoicks pen,

The ancients unto Poets onelyonly gave

The Epithites of wiſe, divine and grave,

Becauſe their meeters taught the world to know

To whom they did their holy worſhip owe.

The Greeke is free and kinder in her praiſe

Which ſhe beſtowes upon Poetick Layes,

She calles all that which takes not eſſence by

A matter pre-exiſtent, Poeſie.

So makes the world a Poem, and by this

The great creator a great Poet is.

Nay more, that language on the Nine beſtowes,

(As ev'ry callent of that Idiom knowes)

In her etimologues an higher grace,

Calles them foreign, and whoſe meaſures trace▪

The ſteps of Nature, humane and divine,

The abſtruſe myſteries of both untwine,

Vnlock the exta of each Science, Art,

By cunning ſearch: againe, not as a part

Nor a grand columne onelyonly, but entreaſures

The ſoule of learning in the Poets meaſures.

All other Arts (which uſe and learning gave)

Precepts and rules, as ſure foundations, have,

When as the Poets pen alone's enſpir'd

With high Enthuſiaſmes, by heaven fir'd,

Ennius them holy calles, and Plato ſayes,

Furies divine are in the Poets layes;

Nor wanted hee himſelfe the Poets wit,

He Dithyrambos and love paſſions writ.

The Regall Prophet was a true borne Poet,

As to the life his well-tun'd meeters ſhow it,

Compos'd to muſicke by that holy man,

Ere Hopkins and Sternhold knew how to ſcan.

Hence Chicken-Augures with your crooked ſtaves,

Whoſe raſh conjectures crowne and dig us graves.

A loftie fanſie ſteeped in the fount

Of Pegaſus, an higher pitch can mount.

Sibylline Oracles did ſpeake in verſe,

Their ſcatterd leaves in meaſures did rehearſe

The myſteries of mans redemption, by

The incarnation of a deitie.

Grave Maro, I remember, in an Ode,

An Eclogue, treades the ſame Prophetick rode.

Thoſe famous Druides renownd of late,

Treated at large oth' ſoules immortall ſtate.

Mans ſpirit does not to the gloomie ſhade

Of Erebus, ore black Cocytus wade.

Death ſets no period, is the leſſer part

Of humane life, for the ſame breath does dart

Vigor to every ſinew in the bulke.

Man lives as freely in another hulke,

Who readeth Ovids Metamorphoſin,

And thinkes not Moſes ſoule was ſheathed in

His body, by a tranſmigration?

He from the chaos tels the worlds plantation.

Maro accords, and gives the world a ſoule,

Which does this well-compacted lumpe controule;

And by illumination he diſcoverd

How then the ſpirit ore the water hoverd.

Th'inſpired pen of old Pythagoras

By Naſos guide, relates, how in this maſſe

All things doe alter ſhape, yet ſoone Dame Nature

Of one forme loſt, informes another feature,

No ſubſtance's nothinged in this large globe,

But gainſt ſome feaſt puts on a newer robe.

The earth reſolv'd to water, rarefies,

Into pure aire the thinner water flies,

The purer aire aſſumes a ſcorching heate:

They back returning, orderly retreate,

Thoſe ſubtile ſparkes converted are to breath,

The ſpiſſye aire, being doomed unto death,

Turnes into ſea, earth's made a thickned water.

Thus wily Nature is a ſtrange tranſlater.

My Lady Readers, I refer to ſands,

But the grave learned unto Ovids hands.

Nor Seneca divine wants propheſies,

Neare to the death of time an age ſhall riſe,

In which, ſayes he, the Ocean ſhall untye

The watry bands of things, and to the eye

Of Typhis, anew world appeare

Vnheard before, by the moſtitching eare,

In glory matching this▪ Then Thule no more

Shall be th'earths ne plus ultra, bound or dore,

Our eights ith'hundred wold large heaps of treaſures

Set in their wills to buy Zorastus meaſures.

Maſſe-prieſts for Dirges then would looſe their fee,

Theſe would the ſureſt de profundis be.

Shopſters and gallants to his houſe would hop,

More than t'Exchanges, or Canary-ſhop.

And Poets briske would have a larger dealth

Than holy Confeſſours, of dead mens wealth.

I might be infinite, ſhould I but ſhow

For what grave Arts the world to Poets owe.

Apelles had not been without Parnaſse,

The penſils worth had onelyonly dwelt on glaſſe,

Or duſty tablets, guided by thoſe Apes,

In imitation of ſome antick ſhapes.

Venus a portraict had, Pigmalion miſt

That ſpeechleſſe female which he hugd and kiſt,

Had not th'enlivening breath of Poetrie

T'a higher pitch reard up dull phantaſie.

How quickly worthy acts of famous men,

Dy'd in the waine of our poetick pen?

How rudely by the Monkes (which onelyonly had

The key of learning) were their actions clad,

King Ethelbert's clos'd in his Poliander,

To Chriſt for Church buildings, he's gone without Maeander

Such ſtuffe the tombes of Bede and Petrarch have,

The razor from all Monkey pates did ſhave

Wit with their haire, except in Mantuan

Re-teind by Vida and Politian,

And many others was this glorious Sun

Which glitter ſhall till earths laſt thread be ſpun,

We raiſe ſhall Obeliskes by Apollos breath,

Which owe no homage to the rage of death.

By pen Honterus creatures limb'd to life,

Better than could the Cynicke with his knife.

Pliny compared unto him, did erre,

He was a Chymick and Coſmographer.

How bravely does the Scottiſh Bard depinge

The planets order, and the Sphericke hinge.

Brave Petrarch, Latin'd by our learned clarke,

Lights us a lampe to guide us in this darke

And critick age, ſayes, that ſtout Alexander,

(Whoſe warlicke ſteps ore all this globe did wander)

Fixing on brave Pelides tombe his eye,

Wrapt with a noble envie, lowd did cry,

Happy, O happy thou, whoſe actions ſtill

Live, being enbreath'd by the immortall quill,

Of worthy Homer! nay, when his ſword had gaind

Thoſe wealthy realmes, ore which Darius raignd.

He mongſt his treaſures found a casket faire,

So ſet with gold and gems, it rayd the aire,

And cald in day deſpight of clowds or nights,

Yet the beſt uſe (as grave Patricius writes)

This cabinet could ſerve to, was t'entombe

Homers choyce Iliads in his glorious wombe.

Of Zoaraflus now ſome wonders heare,

And barrell his diſciples in thine eare,

Whoſe rithmes could charme foule Cerbers bawling tongue,

And pickhels lock with his inchanting ſong.

From Stygian ſhade conducting whom they liſted,

And whom they pleas'd with helliſh fogs bemiſted.

Oh golden meeters, rimes out-worthing gold,

At what high prices would they now be ſold

If they were extant! Friend for friend would ſell

Lordſhips, bookes, banners, to redeeme from hell

How many ages has thoſe Greekes ſurviv'd,

(Than all their predeceſſors longer liv'd)

Which ſhowd their noblc worths at Iliums grave?

Yet thrice Nestorean age them Homer gave:

How bravely Lucan tels ſucceeding ages

The ſeven-hilled cities bloody rages.

Moyſt clowdes long ſince, have waſht the purpled graſſe,

Yet red as ever 'tis in Lucans glaſſe.

To Carthage Queene the wandring Trojan Prince

Pretended love, but dead it is long ſince,

And duſt are they, yet Virgils loftie verſe

Makes him ſpeak wars, ſhe love, from under th 'herſe.

Long ſince did Helleſpont gulpe in Leander,

When he preſum'd on naked breaſt to wander.

Hero's watch-candle's out, they vaniſht quite,

Yet Ovid fayes, all was but yeſter-night.

A great while ſince the cheating Miller ſtole

The Schollers meale by a quadruple tole,

They gave him th'horn-booke, taught his daughter Greek

Yet look in Chaucer, done the other week.

I'rne-ſinewd Talus with his ſteely flaile,

Long ſince ith' right of juſtice did prevaile

VnderUnder the Scepter of the Fairy Queene,

Yet Spencers loftie meaſures makes it greene.

Dun was a Poet, and a grave Divine,

Highly eſteemed for the ſacred Nine,

That after times ſhall ſay whileſt theres a Sun,

This Verſe, this Sermon was compos'd by Dun.

What by heroick acts to man accrues,

When griſely Charon for his waftage ſues,

If his great grand-childe, and his grand-childes ſon,

May not the honours, which his ſword hath won.

Read, grav'd on paper by a Poets pen,

When matble monuments are duſt, and when

Time has eat off his paint, and letterd gold,

For verſe alone keepes honour out oth▪ mold.

The preſſe ſucceſſively gives birth to verſe:

Shall ſteely Tombes out-live the Buckram herſe?

To otherthings the ſame proportion hold,

Pure rimes, which loftie volumes doe enfold.

Aut umnall froſts would nip the double Roſe,

If cheriſht onelyonly by the breath of Proſe.

Beautie of beautie's not the ſmalleſt part,

Which is beſtowed by our liberall Art.

Orpheus, Arion, and the ſcraping crue,

To wyre and parched guts may bid adiew,

Or audience beg, wer't not for ſprightfull Bayes,

Which to the ſtrings compoſeth merry Layes,

But with the Muſes I'me ſo faln in love,

That I forget thy preſence, mightie Iove,

And through the ſpacious univerſe doe walke,

Bur this ſhall ſet a period to my talke.

Iove ſtretcht his Scepter then with frolick grace,

And joy triumphed on the heavens face,

The Orbes made Muſicke, and the Planets danced,

The Muſes glory was by all enhanced:

Iove thenintended for to ratifie

Decrees in the behoofe of Poeſie,

Giving the Bards his hand to kiſſe, and made

Chaplets of Lawrel, which ſhould never fade.

But Vulcan to Gradive plac't in oppoſe,

Was nodding faſt, and bellowing through the noſe,

His armed brow fell downe, and lighting right,

His antlers did the marching god unſight.

Mars fum'd, the gods laught out, the ſphears did ſhake

At which ſhrill noyſe I ſtarting did awake,

And looking up, (Eaſt having op't his dores)

Amazed I beheld a troope of ſcores,

And wondring, thought they'd been Ale-debts, but found

I them had chalked in my dreaming ſwound.

I trow not the decree, 'twas Vulcans fault,

Yet dreames are ſeldome ſound, like him they halt.

Take this, and if I can ſo happy be,

Ile write in my next ſlumbers, the Decree.

FINIS.

GEntle Reader, heare with ſome faults, which through the obſcuritie of the copie, and the abſence of the Authour have eſcaped; as page 3. line 24. for veyne read reyne. p. 3. l. 6. for enjoyd read enjayld, p. 6. l. 10. for tener read knee. p. 12. l. 24. for Satamit read Catamite. Two ſtaves there are miſplaced, to the reforming whereof the ſence will direct thee: what other errours thou findeſt, let thy pen amend, excuſing the preſſe, and un-ſtaining the Author.

End of the text · Nathaniel Whiting, The Peasant History of Albino and Bellama (1637)