To the noble and most virtuous lady, Mrs. Anne Leeds.

Madam,

Here you see what diligence I have used to involve myself into a labyrinth, out of which my judgement is not clew sufficient to conduct me. I blush when I remember how I have betrayed my own weakness to the public view, and like Cecrop’s daughter, tempted my Minerva to my own ruin, for daring to discover an infant with such deformed feet. I have reason to fear that those knowing spirits, the right heirs to all those sacred fountains within the diocese of the mitred hill, those professed champions of poesy, who are so jealous of the Muses' honour, will be strict in their examinations, severe in their censures and where they find an intruder, whose follies are stripped thus naked as are mine, liberally use that lash which was justly put into their hands. But when they shall know, I am not so wedded to self-love, but that, were I permitted to cast my bean into the urn, I should be as ready to condemn myself as expect my sentence from another; perhaps, so ingenious a confession might in noble minds quite pluck out the sting of anger and make their reprehensions rather arise from pity or a fatherly affection than revenge. But then I tremble to think how I stand engaged amongst all that ignorant and censorious rabble, who because nature (foreseeing how lavish they would be of that little which they had) durst not trust them with any considerable stock of wit, believe they are privileged to cry it down in others; men that, conscious of their own baseness, obstinately arm against truth and knowledge and by custom of malice are grown so barbarous as they will vindicate a prostitute, or set a spurious birth upon the highest point of honour, but endeavour to stab their forked tongues into the bosom of the most chaste and noble virgin. My meaning is that they will cherish common and shallow fancies, births so infamous that they can only speak their parents' shame, when a legitimate poem often falls a sacrifice to the many-headed and no brained multitude. From the rage of these, I fly to you for protection, as confident (how desperately soever otherwise bent) they dare not violate so holy a sanctuary. Nor do I doubt, but you will guard me from so treacherous and unjust an enemy, as pretends to reprove my faults, but indeed acts his own malice and would have persecuted me worse, had this been better. Neither am I so impudent as to desire you should, against the equity of your own conscience, defend a trifle and approve to others what you yourself mislike. No, Madam, I request you to be my judge as well as patron, as well to punish where you find me faulty as to protect me innocent and if after due examination had, my whole book shall appear guilty of cheating my readers out of so much time for nothing, sentence it to the fire. And believe me, I would not bewail my own sufferings, if condemned by so legal a process. But if you shall be pleased to receive it into any degree of favour, I shall be secure that it is not altogether to be despised and, in that confidence, dare both vindicate myself unto the world and make my own revenge of such as shall provoke me. Your wisdom, justice and singular affection to the Muses (to wrong whom, I believe you esteem, as well as I, a sin next sacrilege) may sufficiently warrant all men that your judgment will be unbiased. Therefore, as that shall determine of me, I will either quietly submit myself to all censures, or rise up in defence of my innocence. In the meantime, I will not speak one word in my own behalf; only if this shall fail your expectation and prove unworthy this honour it is advanced to, I beseech you exercise both your justice and mercy, burn it, but forgive him, who will ever esteem it his greatest happiness to be reckoned amongst the number of

Your servants,

Edmund Prestwich.