The mariners magazine, or, Sturmy's mathematical and practical arts containing the description and use of the scale of scales, it being a mathematical ruler, that resolves most mathematical conclusions, and likewise the making and use of the crostaff, quadrant, and the quadrat, nocturnals, and other most useful instruments for all artists and navigators : the art of navigation, resolved geometrically, instrumentally, and by calculation, and by that late excellent invention of logarithms, in the three principal kinds of sailing : with new tables of the longitude and latitude of the most eminent places ... : together with a discourse of the practick part of navigation ..., a new way of surveying land ..., the art of gauging all sorts of vessels ..., the art of dialling by a gnomical scale ... : whereunto is annexed, an abridgment of the penalties and forfeitures, by acts of parliaments appointed, relating to the customs and navigation : also a compendium of fortification, both geometrically and instrumentally / by Capt. Samuel Sturmy.

THE AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT.

HOw in these days are Artists now regarded! No, not so much as Oil or Ink rewarded. Yet shall a Sycophant, or Rhiming Knave, If he but Impudence and gay Clothes have, Can harp upon some scurr'lous Jest or Tale, (Though fifteen times told, and i' th' City stale) Command a Great Mans Ear, perhaps be able To prefer Suits, and elbow at his Table, Wear speaking Pockets, boast whom he doth serve; When meriting Men may either beg or starve. Mean time we spend our fruitless Hours in vain, And Age of want and hunger doth complain. It grieves us now, although too late at last, Our time in painful Studies to have past; And what a Folly 'tis we now have found, To cast our Seed in an unfruitful Ground; That in time past we have laid up no store, Which might maintain us when our Heads be hoar; And that our shaken Vessels, torn and thin, Can find no easie Port to harbour in. Then, barren Arts, seek out some other Friend; For I henceforth a thriving Course intend. None will with Violets my Ashes grace, Or strew sweet fragrant Roses in the place. If any loves me, and intends to give, I wish to taste his Bounty whilst I live. What do I care, when Fates my Thred have spun, Though Briars and Thorns my Grave shall over-run.

Impiger extremos currit Mercator ad Indos, Per mare pauperiem fugiens, per saxa, per ignes.