TO THE READER

Reader,

If any do read this Book of mine, pray be not too severe in your Censures. For first, I have no Children to employ my Care and Attendance on; and my Lord’s Estate being taken away, had nothing for Housewifery, or thrifty Industry to employ myself in; having no Stock to work on. For Housewifery is a discreet Management, and ordering all in Private, and Household Affairs, seeing nothing spoiled, or Profusely spent, that everything has its proper Place, and every Servant his proper Work, and every Work to be done in its proper Time; to be Neat, and Cleanly, to have their House quiet from all disturbing Noise. But Thriftiness is something stricter; for good Housewifery may be used in great Expenses; but Thriftiness signifies a Saving, or a getting; as to increase their Stock, or Estate. For Thrift weighs, and measures out all Expense. It is just as in Poetry: for good Husbandry in Poetry, is, when there is great store of Fancy well ordered, not only in fine Language, but proper Phrases, and significant Words. And Thrift in Poetry, is, when there is but little Fancy, which is not only spun to the last Thread, but the Thread is drawn so small, as it is scarce perceived. But I have nothing to spin, or order, so as I become Idle; I cannot say, in mine own House, because I have none, but what my Mind is lodged in. Thirdly, you are to spare your severe Censures, I having not so many years of Experience, as will make me a Garland to Crown my Head; only I have had so much time, as to gather a little Posy to stick upon my Breast. Lastly, the time I have been writing them, hath not been very long, but since I came into England, being eight Years out, and nine Months in; and of these nine Months, only some Hours in the Day, or rather in the Night. For my Rest being broke with discontented Thoughts, because I was from my Lord, and Husband, knowing him to be in great Wants, and myself in the same Condition; to divert them, I strove to turn the Stream, yet shunning the muddy, and foul ways of Vice, I went to the Well of Helicon, and by the Wellside, I have sat, and wrote this Work. It is not Excellent, nor Rare, but plain; yet it is harmless, modest, and honest. True, it may tax my Indiscretion, being so fond of my Book, as to make it as if it were my Child, and striving to show her to the World, in hopes Some may like her, although no Beauty to Admire, yet may praise her Behaviour, as not being wanton, nor rude. Wherefore I hope you will not put her out of Countenance, which she is very apt to, being of bashful Nature, and as ready to shed Repentant Tears, if she think she hath committed a Fault: wherefore pity her Youth, and tender Growth, and rather tax the Parent’s Indiscretion, than the Child’s Innocency. But my Book coming out in this Iron age, I fear I shall find hard Hearts; yet I had rather she should find Cruelty, than Scorn, and that my book should be torn, rather than laughed at; for there is no such regret in Nature as Contempt: but I am resolved to set it at all Hazards. If Fortune plays Aums Ace, I am gone; if size Cinque, I shall win a Reputation of Fancy, and if I lose, I lose but the Opinion of Wit: and where the Gain will be more than the Loss, who would not venture: when there are many in the World, (which are accounted Wise) that will venture Life, and Honour, for a petty Interest, or out of Envy, or for Revenge sake. And why should not I venture, when nothing lies at Stake, but Wit? let it go; I shall nor cannot be much Poorer. If Fortune be my Friend, then Fame will be my Gain, which may build me a Pyramid, a Praise to my Memory. I shall have no cause to fear it will be so high as Babel’s tower, to fall in the midway; yet I am sorry it doth not touch at Heaven: but my Incapacity, Fear, Awe, and Reverence kept me from that Work. For it were too great a Presumption to venture to Discourse that in my Fancy, which is not describable. For God, and his Heavenly Mansions, are to be admired, wondered, and astonished at, and not disputed on.

But at all other things let Fancy fly,

And, like a Tow’ring Eagle, mount the Sky.

Or like the Sun swiftly the World to round,

Or like pure Gold, which in the Earth is found.

But if a drossy Wit, let’t buried be,

Under the Ruins of all Memory.