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An Epistle to the Reader.
THIS Book, most of it was written five years since, and was lockt up in a Trunk as if it had been buried in a Grave, but, when I came out of Eng∣land, I gave it a Resurruction; and after a view, I judged it not so well done but that a little more care might have placed the words so, as the Lan∣guage might have run smoother, which would have given the Sense a greater Lustre; but I being of a lazy disposition, did choose to let it go into the World with its Defects, rather than take the pains to refine it; besides, to me it seemed as if I had built a House, and not liking the Form after it was built, must be forced to take it in pieces and rebuild it again, to make it of that fashion I would have it, or be contented as it was; which considering with my self, I found it would be as great a charge of Time and Pains, as if I should build a New one on an other Ground; besides, there is more Pleasure and Delight in making than in mending; and I verily believe my Neighbours, which are my Readers, would have found fault with it if I had done it as I could, and they could but dispraise it as it is; but I am so well armed with carclesness, that their several Censures can never enter to vex me with Wounds of Discontent; Howsoever, I have my delight in Writing and having it printed; and if any take a Delight to read it, I will not thank them for it; for if any thing please therein, they are to thank me for so much pleasure; and if it be naught, I had rather they had left it unread: But those that do not like my Book, which is my House, I pray them to pass by, for I have not any entertainment fit for their Palats.