To his worthy Captaine the Author.
THat which wee call the subiect of all Storie,
Is Truth, which in this Worke of thine giues glorie
To all that thou hast done. Then, scorne the spight
Of Enuie; which doth no mans merits right.
My sword may helpe the rest: my Pen no more
Can doe, but this; I’aue said enough before.
Is Truth, which in this Worke of thine giues glorie
To all that thou hast done. Then, scorne the spight
Of Enuie; which doth no mans merits right.
My sword may helpe the rest: my Pen no more
Can doe, but this; I’aue said enough before.
Your sometime souldier,
I. Codrinton, now Templer.
To my Worthy friend and Cosen,
Captaine Iohn Smith.
Captaine Iohn Smith.
It ouer-ioyes my heart, when as thy Words
Of these designes, with deeds I doe compare.
Heere is a Booke, such worthy truth affords,
None should the due desert thereof impare;
Sith thou, the man, deseruing of these Ages,
Much paine hast ta’en for this our Kingdoms good,
In Climes vnknowne, Mongst Turks and Saluages,
T'inlarge our bounds; though with thy losse of blood.
Hence damn’d Detraction: stand not in our way.
Enuie, it selfe, will not the Truth gainesay.
Of these designes, with deeds I doe compare.
Heere is a Booke, such worthy truth affords,
None should the due desert thereof impare;
Sith thou, the man, deseruing of these Ages,
Much paine hast ta’en for this our Kingdoms good,
In Climes vnknowne, Mongst Turks and Saluages,
T'inlarge our bounds; though with thy losse of blood.
Hence damn’d Detraction: stand not in our way.
Enuie, it selfe, will not the Truth gainesay.
N. Smith.
