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THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK, by                    
First Line: Go gall-less infant of my teeming quill
Last Line: Go take thy chance, I turn thee out o' th' door.


GO gall-less infant of my teeming quill,
Not yet bedew'd in Syracusa's rill,
And like a forward plover gadd'st abroad,
Ere shell-free or before full age has strow'd
On thy smooth back a coat of feathers,
To arm thee 'gainst the force of weathers,
Doom'd to the censure of all ages,
Ere mail'd against the youngest rages.
Perchance some nobles will thee view,
Smile at thee, on thee, like thee new,
But when white age has wrinkled thee,
Will slight thy measures, laugh at me.
At first view called pretty,
And perchance styled witty,
By some ladies, until thou
Wearest furrows on thy brow.
Some plumed gallants may
Unclasp thy leaves and say,
Th'art mirthful, but ere long
Give place unto a song.
Some courteous scholar,
Purg'd from all choler,
May like, but at last,
Say thou spoil'st his taste.
First, lawyers will
Commend thy skill,
Last, throw thy wit
With Trinit's writ.
Chamber-she's
On their knee
will thee praise,
and thy bays.
A first,
till thirst
of new
death you,
then all
men shall
Flee
thee
Bee
me.

THIS is thy doom, I by prophetic spirit
Presage will be the guerdon of my merit:
Yet be no burr, no trencher-fly, nor hound,
To fawn on them whose tongues thy measures wound.
Nor beg those niggards' eyes, who grudge to see
A watch unwinded in perusing thee.
And if state-scratchers do condemn thy jests,
For ruffling satins, and bespangled vests,
Tell them they're cozen'd and in vain they puff,
Thou neither aim'st at half-ell band or ruff:
And if thy lines perchance some ermines gash,
'Tis not thy fault, 'twas no intended lash.
Thy pencil limns Don Fuco's portraiture,
And only dost his native worth immure
Within these tilic rinds: nor is thy rage
Against the Cowlists of this youngest age.
Thy rhymes cry Pax to all, nor dost thou scatter
Abuses on their shrines, their saints, or water,
And if some civil satire lash thee back,
Because he reads my title, sees my black,
Answer i' th' poet's phrase, and tell them more,
My tale of years had scarce outsummed a score
When my young fancy these light measures meant
The press: but Fate since cancell'd that intent,
Nor claim'd the Church as then a greater part
In me than others, bate my title Art --
But now the scene is changed? confess'd it is.
Must we abjure all youth, born, bury this?
Such closet death's desertless, in this glass
Read not what now I am but then I was:
In this reflection may the gravest see
How true we suit -- I this, and this with me.
These thorns pick'd out whose venom might have bred
A gangrene in thy reader, struck thee dead.
Thou mayst perhaps invited be to court,
And have a brace of smiles t' approve thy sport.
Those whose grave wisdoms wise do them entitle
(Whose learned nods loud ignorance can stifle),
Some of time's numbers on thy lines will scatter,
If not call'd from thee by some higher matter.
Laugh out a rubber, like, and say 'tis good
For pleasure, youth, and leisure, wholesome food.
Some jigging silk-canary, newly bloomed,
When he is crisped, bathed, oiled, perfumed
(Which till the second chime will scarce be done),
Upon thy feet will make his crystals run,
Commend the author, vow him service ever,
But from such things his genius him deliver!
Some sleeked Nymphs of country, city, court
Will, next their dogs and monkeys, like thy sport;
Smile, and admire, and, wearied, will (perhaps)
Lay thee to sleep encurtained in their laps.
Oh, happy thou! who would not wish to be
(To gain such dainty lodging) such, or thee?
Say, to please them, the poet undertook
To make thee, from a sheet, thrive to a book,
And if he has to beauty giv'n a gem,
He challengeth a deck of thanks from them:
And if some winning creature smile on thee
She shall his L. and his Bellama be.
Betwixt eleven and one some pro and con
Will snatch a fancy from thee and put on
A glove or ring of thine to court his lass,
'Twixt term and term when they are turn'd to grass.
Some Titius will lay by his wax and books,
And nim a phrase to bait his amorous hooks.
But stay, I shall be child, methinks I hear
A censure spread its wings to reach my ear,
Tell me I am conceited: then no more,
Go take thy chance, I turn thee out o' th' door.





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