For a Mufe of Fire, that would afcend
The brightest Heav'n of Invention,
A Kingdom for a Stage, Princes to act,
And Monarchs to behold the swelling Scene.
Then fhould the Warlike Harry, like himself,
Affume the Port of Mars, and at his Heels,
Leafht in, like Hounds, fhould Famine, Sword, and Fire
Crouch for Employments. But pardon, Gentles all,
The flat unraifed Spirit, that hath dar'd,
On this unworthy Scaffold, to bring forth
So great an Object. Can this Cock-Pit hold
The vafty Field of France? Or may we cram
Within this Wooden O, the very Caskes
That did affright the Air at Agincourt?
O Pardon; fince a crooked Figure may
Atteft in little place a Million,
And let us, Cyphers to this great Accompt,
On your imaginary Forces work.
Suppofe within the Girdle of thefe Walls
Are now confin'd two mighty Monarchies,
Whofe high, up-reared, and abutting Fronts,
The perillous narrow Ocean parts afunder.
Piece out our Imperfections with your Thoughts:
Into a thoufand Parts divide one Man,
And make imaginary Puiffance.
Think, when we talk of Horfes, that you fee them
Printing their proud Hoofs i'th' receiving Earth:
For 'tis your Thoughts that now must deck our Kings,
Carry them here and there; jumping o'er Times,
Turning th' accomplishment of many Years
Into an Hour-glass; for the which fupply,
Admit me Chorus to this History;
Who Prologue-like, your humble Patience pray,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge our Play.