To the Reader
never ſtink more than when they are cruſht, and ſqueezed; and who, in ſpight of all perfumes, will offend the Noſe even when they are dead. I hope you will pardon the ill Tunes to which they are to be ſung, there being none bad enough for them; nor any voice ſo fit as their Speaker’s, who, as long as he was the Rump of this Rump, and ſate in the Chair, it was a kind of a new Common-wealth, or Mr. Hobs’s Artificiall Man made a Leviathan, ſtill breaking wind, and ſpeaking backwards.
