’To any that will read it. When I first undertook this Poem, or, as some very skilful in this kind have pleased to term it, this Herculean labour, I was by some virtuous friends persuaded, that I should receive much comfort and encouragement therein; and for these reasons; First, that it was a new, clear, way, never before gone by any; then, that it contained all the Delicacies, Delights, and Rarities of this renowned Isle, interwoven with the Histories of the Britons, Saxons, Normans, and the later English:  And further that there is scarcely any of the Nobility or Gentry of this land, but that he is in some way or other by his Blood interested therein.  But it hath fallen out otherwise; for instead of that comfort, which my noble friends (from the freedom of their spirits) proposed as my due, I have met with barbarous ignorance, and base detraction; such a cloud hath the Devil drawn over the world’s judgment, whose opinion is in few years fallen so far below all ballatry, that the lethargy is incurable:  nay, some of the Stationers, that had the selling of the First Part of this Poem, because it went not so fast away in the sale, as some of their beastly and abominable trash, (a shame both to our language and nation) have either despitefully left out, or at least carelessly neglected the Epistles to the Readers, and so have cozened the buyers with unperfected books; which these that have undertaken the Second Part, have been forced to amend in the First, for the small number that are yet remaining in their hands.  And some of our outlandish, unnatural, English, (I know not how otherwise to express them) stick not to say that there is nothing in this Island worth studying for, and take a great pride to be ignorant in any thing thereof; for these, since they delight in their folly, I wish it may be hereditary from them to their posterity, that their children may be begg’d for fools to the fifth generation, until it may be beyond the memory of man to know that there was ever other of their families:  neither can this deter me from going on with Scotland, if means and time do not hinder me, to perform as much as I have promised in my First Song: 

    Till through the sleepy main, to Thuly I have gone,
    And seen the Frozen Isles, the cold Deucalidon,
    Amongst whose iron Rocks, grim Saturn yet remains
    Bound in those gloomy caves with adamantine chains.

And as for those cattle whereof I spake before, Odi profanum vulgus, et arceo, of which I account them, be they never so great, and so I leave them.  To my friends, and the lovers of my labours, I wish all happiness. Michael Drayton.’