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piety and charity Mr. Saltkel magnified much) not only disavowed, but detested. Not to trouble you further; your reader (if according to your desire my approbation of your work carries any weight) will here find many just reasons to thank you for it; and possibly for this circumstance here mentioned (not known to many), may happily apprehend one to thank him, who heartily wishes your happiness, and is unfeignedly, Sir, your ever faithful and affectionate old friend, HENRY CHICHESTER. CHICHESTER, Nov. 17, 1664.
T H E IN T R O DUCTION.
If that great master of language and art, Sir Henry Wotton, the late Provost of Eaton College, had lived to see the publication of these Sermons,” he had presented the world with the author's Life exactly written; and it was pity he did not ; for it was a work worthy his undertaking, and he fit to undertake it; betwixt whom and the author there was so mutual a knowledge, and such a friendship contracted in their youth, as nothing but death could force a separation. And though their bodies were divided, their affections were not; for that learned knight's love followed his friend's fame beyond death and the forgetful grave, which he testified by entreating me, whom he acquainted with his design, to inquire of some particulars that concerned it, not doubting but
“This Life was originally prefixed to the first collection of Dr. Donne's Sermons, printed in 1640.
my knowledge of the author and love to his memory might make my diligence useful. I did most gladly undertake the employment, and continued it with great content till I had made my collection ready to be augmented and completed by his matchless pen; but then death prevented his intentions. When I heard that sad news, and heard also that these Sermons were to be printed, and want the author's Life, which I thought to be very remarkable, indignation or grief (indeed I know not which) transported me so far, that I reviewed my forsaken collections, and resolved the world should see the best plain picture of the author's life that my artless pencil, guided by the hand of truth, could present to it. And if I shall now be demanded, as once Pompey's poor bondman was; — (the grateful wretch had been left alone on the sea-shore, with the forsaken dead body of his once glorious lord and master, and was then gathering the scattered pieces of an old broken boat to make a funeral pile to burn it, which was the custom of the Romans)—“Who art thou that alone hast the honor to bury the body of Pompey the Great” so, who am I that do thus officiously set the author's memory on fire? I hope the question will prove to have in it more of wonder than disdain. But wonder indeed the reader may, that