To his Booke.

HAve I not blest Thee? Then go forth; nor fear
Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here.
But with thy fair Fates leading thee, Go on
With thy most white Predestination.
Nor thinke these Ages that do hoarcely sing
The farting Tanner, and familiar King;
The dancing Frier, tatter'd in the bush;
Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush:
Tom Chipperfeild, and pritty-lisping Ned,
That doted on a Maide of Gingerbred:
The flying Pilcher, and the frisking Dace;
With all the rabble of Tim-Trundells race,
(Bred from the dung-hils, and adulterous rhimes,)
Shall live, and thou not superlast all times?
No, no, thy Stars have destin'd Thee to see
The whole world die, and turn to dust with thee.
He's greedie of his life, who will not fall,
When as a publick ruine bears down All.