To the Reader

Dost wonder Reader why my Satyr-Muse
Hath got no lines ith' front as others use
To set her forth, and so conceive her poore
'Cause friendless as not worth the reading o'r?
Why I bespoke not other men to write
Encomium's there, whose empty praises might
Make the enlarged Preface swel and look
Like Mindus porch, as big as all the book?
She scornd to beg applause, or trouble friends,
Except those she gets: Good wine it self commends.
Why shud a stranger at her feast say grace?
She bids you welcome, fall to, if you please!