Enter Chorus. |
Chor. O! for a Muse of fire, that would ascend |
The brightest heaven of invention; |
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act |
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene. |
Then should the war-like Harry, like himself, |
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels, |
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire |
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all, |
The flat unraised spirits that hath dar'd |
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth |
So great an object: can this cockpit hold |
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram |
Within this wooden O the very casques |
That did affright the air at Agincourt? |
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may |
Attest in little place a million; |
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt, |
On your imaginary forces work. |
Suppose within the girdle of these walls |
Are now confin'd two mighty monarchies, |
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts |
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder: |
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts: |
Into a thousand parts divide one man, |
And make imaginary puissance; |
Think when we talk of horses that you see them |
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; |
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings, |
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times, |
Turning the accomplishment of many years |
Into an hour-glass: for the which supply, |
Admit me Chorus to this history; |
Who prologue-like your humble patience pray, |
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play. [Exit. |
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