wisdom, and
magnanimity.
Or to the Reader.
N Epistle to the Reader! Why! that must have his Forehead or first entrance like a Courtier, fair-spoken and full of expectation; his Middle or centre like your citizen's warehouse, beautified with enticing vanities, though the true riches consist of bald commodities; his Rendezvous or conclusion like the lawyer's case, able to pocket up any matter; but let good words be your best evidence! In the General or foundation, he must be like Paul's Church, resolved to let every Knight and Gull travel upon him: yet his Particulars or lineaments may be Royal as the Exchange, with ascending steps, promising new but costly devices and fashions. It must have Teeth like a Satyr, Eyes like a critic; and yet may your Tongue speak false Latin, like your panders and bawds of poetry. Your Genius and Species should march in battle array with our politicians: yet your Genius ought to live with an honest soul indeed.
It should be like the never-too-well-read Arcadia, where the Prose and Verse, Matter and Words, are like his [Sidney's] Mistress's eyes! one still excelling another, and without corrival! or to come home to the vulgar's element, like friendly Shake-speare's Tragedies, where the Comedian rides, when the Tragedian stands on tiptoe. Faith, it should please all, like Prince Hamlet! But, in sadness, then it were to be feared, he would run mad. In sooth, I will not be moonsick, to please! nor out of my wits, though I displease all! What? Poet! are you in Passion, or out of Love? This is as strange as true!
Well, well! if I seem mystical or tyrannical; whether I be a fool or a Lord's-Ingle; all's one! If you be angry, you are not well advised! I will tell you, it is an Indian humour I have snuffed up from Divine Tobacco! and it is most gentlemanlike, to puff it out at any place or person!
I'll no Epistle! It were worse than one of Hercules' labours! but will conclude honesty is a man's best virtue. And but for the Lord Mayor and the two Sheriffs, the Inns of Court, and many Gallants elsewhere, this last year might have been burned! As for Momus (carp and bark who will!), if the noble Ass bray not, I am as good a Knight Poet, as Ætatis suæ, Master An. Dom.'s son-in-law.
Let your critic look to the rowels of his spurs, the pad of his saddle, and the jerk of his wand! then let him ride me and my rhymes down, as hotly as he would. I care not! We shall meet and be friends again, with the breaking of a spear or two! and who would do less, for a fair Lady?