Prologue to the READER

Good gentle Reader, if I doe transgresse,
I know you know, that I did ne're professe,
Vntill this time in Print to be a Poet:
And now to exercise my wits I show it.
View but the intralls of this little Booke,
And thou wilt say that I some paines haue tooke:
Paines mixt with pleasure, pleasure ioynd with paine,
Produc'd this issue of my laboring braine.
But now me thinkes I heare some enuious throat,
Say I should deale no further then my Boat:
And ply my Fare, and leaue my Epigram,
Minding, ne sutor vltra .
To such I answere, Fortune giues her gifts,
Some downe she throwes, & some to honor lifts:
Mongst whome from me, she hath with held her store
And giues me leaue to sweat it at my Oare,
And though with labour I my liuing purse,
Yet doe I thinke my lines no iot the worse:
For gold is gold, though buried vnder mosse,
And drosse in golden vessels is but drosse.