To my much Honoured and Ingenuous Cousin,

Since you vouchsafe me sight, I needs must falt, To actuall sin ’gainst your Originall, Should I not more then tacitely expresse It’s worth, as well as mine owne thankfulnesse. Omissive duties, and committed facts In man, you know, an equall guilt contracts. And (though your judge should know the severall Arts, Both what the Colledge and the Court imparts: And Jurates ought to be like the twelve signes, Such Asterismes, where Sol himselfe confines) A common Suffrage nevethelesse may aim, (Not to give verdict) but the gift proclaim. That judgment let me enter. They indite, That here’s vast profit, mixt with high delight; That what’s suppos’d a Narrative, will be To him that reads, a Naturall History. For in that Horison, your pen doth misse, Nor Heaven, Earth, Sea, nor ought that in them is. Not a new Star can scape your Observation, Nor the least Insect passe your Contemplation. Nor use you shortnesse, nor prolixity; But first describe, then speak its property. Me thinks, as Pliny, you are their Relator; And are as Adam too, their Nomenclator. For, to your Insects, Birds, and Vegetives, You give not known, but due Appellatives. Their rich descriptions, when you paint, I see Colours so lively, and such Symmetry: But that I’ve seen the hand, that guides the quill, A Pencill use, ’twere scarce in Limning skill. And when you descant richly, thus, I see Compos’d in severall parts, and all agree, How Chords and Discords too, you do devise, From Sympathies, and from Antipathies. Your Fuges and Poynts into a Canon twine, All true to th’ Ground, that is your main designe: And all Concentring to so sweet an Ayre, Would ravish Philomels, make Swans despair. Your skill above fam’d Orpheus I advance, Since thus your Creatures play, his did but Dance. To such as only seek their benefit, You do infallibly discover it: You shew therein, 3000 l. will clear No lesse then 7000 l. a year. And that not in a jugling Chymick sense, But drawn from reason and experience. The Scite, Clime, Food, the Customs, Laws, and Trade, To each inquisitor is open laid. Your Georgick strain seemes to extract the marrow Of Marcus, Cato, Columel, and Varro; As if that there you had the grouth and age Of a Palmeto, to improve each page: And with so great an art and industry, As if you’d studied nought but Husbandry. When of your Vegetives you make relation, You rather make than speak of a Plantation, Your leaves affording shape, taste, and delight To th’ Sense, the fruit gives to the Appetite. If Pythagorean Doctrine were Divine, I would be transmigrated to your Pine. The Cane or Mine, (that makes that Spot of ground As rich, as any ’twixt the Poles is found) Is here so full and happily exprest: You Candy that, which does preserve the rest: And its Ingenio seemes to be a Lecture (As ’tis describ’d) o’ th’ Art of Architecture. The Texture of the whole you’ve wove so nice, Your fine spun thread, warpt, wooft with Artifice. It seemes a Landscape in rich Tapestry, Embroidered with Natures Novelty, Attireing all in such a lovely Dresse, Rich, Genuine, and full of Courtlinesse: That as Great Brittain sometimes I have seen, So you’ve Barbadoes drawn just like a Queen. GEORGE WALSHE.