The Author to the Reader

Come you whose listening ears do even itch,

To hear the way prescribed of growing rich;

I'll show you how to make your tenements

Ten thousand times more worth, and yet your rents

Not raised a farthing; here my reader sees,

A way to make his dead and barren trees;

Yield precious fruit, his sheep though ne'er so bad

Bear golden fleeces, such ne'er Jason had.

In every thing your gain shall more than double,

And all this had with far less toil and trouble.

Methinks, I hear you say this cannot be,

I'll ne'er believe it: well, read on and see.

Reader, had you but senses exercised

To judge aright; were spiritual things but prized

At their just value, you would quickly say

'Tis so indeed; you would not go your way

Like one that's disappointed, and so fling

The book aside, I though 'twas some such thing.

Time was when country Christians did afford,

More hours and pains about God's holy Word;

Witness the man who did most gladly pay

For some few leaves his whole cart load of hay.

And time shall be when heavenly truth that warms

The heart shall be preferred before your farms.

When holiness as sacred Scripture tells,

Shall be engraved on the horses' bells.

Lord hasten on those much desired times;

And to that purpose bless these rural rhymes.