To the curteous Reader.

There goeth a prety Fable of the Moone: On a time she earnestly besought her mother to prouide her a garment, comely and fit for her body: how can that bee sweete daughter (quoth the mother) sith that your body neuer keepes it selfe at one staye, nor at one certaine estate, but changeth euery day in the month, nay euery houre? The application heereof needes no interpretation: Fantasie and foolery who can please? and desire who can humour? no Camelion changeth his coulour as affection, nor any thing so variable a Populus Chorus Fluuius.

I would with all my heart, euery Author that had done no better then I haue, had done no worse: and it were to be wished that some caprichious Coxecombes, with their desperate wits, were not so forward to disbowell the entrails of their own ouerweening, singular, infectious, & pestiferous thoughts, as I knowe some.

But I cannot stand all day nosing of Candlestickes; meane time beare with a plaine man: whatsoeuer I haue now done, I hope no exception can be taken, it is for your mirth and recreation (and I pray you so take it.) let such as will needes barke at the Moone, yell till their hearts ake: Gentle and Gentlemens spirits, wil take all kindely that is kindely presented.

Yours in loue S.R.