To my dear Si/ier, the Author of [vi]
thefe Poems.
'T^IIough moft that know me, dare (I think) affirm
-*- I ne're was born to do a Poet harm, Yet when I read your pleafant witty ftrains. It wrought fo flrongly on my addle brains; That though my verfe be not fo finely fpun, And fo (like yours) cannot fo neatly run. Yet am I willing, with upright intent, To fhew my love without a complement. There needs no painting to that comely face. That in its native beauty hath fuch grace; What I (poor lilly I) prefix therefore. Can but do this, make yours admir'd the more; And if but only this, I do attain Content, that my difgrace may be your gain.
If women, I with women may compare, Your works are folid, others weak as Air; Some Books of Women I have heard of late, Perufed fome, fo witlefs, intricate, So void of fenfe, and truth, as if to erre Were only wifht (a6ling above their fphear) And all to get, what (lilly Souls) they lack, Efteem to be the wifefh of the pack;
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