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To the Reader concerning this Book, and his Worthy Friend, the Composer of it.
Who fears the same of Academick sense Must blame this Author, saying, a bonny sconce Is fitter for him, than a weed that springs In any Grove, that's shadowed by the wings Of Pegasus, that nimble Horse that runnes Among the Goths, the Vandals, and the Hunnes; But we are Christians, say the men that bottle All their Extractions out of Aristotle; We are the men that must amuze the world With what He hath broach'd, and still amongst us hurl'd: But here's a man that tells the truth indeed, And shewes our Human Learning but a weed, A dream of yesternight, and no such thing As men from Oxford, or from Cambridge bring. Reader consider what he saies, and mark What Artifice of mischief lyes i'th'dark, How Ignorance hath brav'd it out, and still Goes veil'd and mask'd under the name of Skill; How men pretend to that which is Divine, And yet discern not what is but Humane. How earnest should we be, and valiant then Against those Idols of the times, who when They know not God, or what is taught by him, Would yet in lower waters drink and swim Of Human Learning? But how vain and odd Is his conceit, that knowes neither man nor God, And yet would fain perswade the world that he Can handsomely unfold each mystery? Away with fond conceits, let us lament Our not perceiving what may us content, Which lies not in the Creatures view, much less Can any see it, who themselves do bless, In groping after that which men enhaunce, And yet what is it, but meer Nescience? Well-fare the Author of this learned Book, Whose pains from us frauds of this nature took.〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉. I. C. A. M.