In Troy there lies the scene. From isles of Greece |
The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf'd, |
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships, |
Fraught with the ministers and instruments |
Of cruel war: sixty and nine, that wore |
Their crownets regal, from the Athenian bay |
Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made |
To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures |
The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen, |
With wanton Paris sleeps; and that's the quarrel. |
To Tenedos they come, |
And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge |
Their war-like fraughtage: now on Dardan plains |
The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch |
Their brave pavilions: Priam's six-gated city, |
Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Trojan, |
And Antenorides, with massy staples |
And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, |
Sperr up the sons of Troy. |
Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits, |
On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, |
Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come |
A prologue arm'd, but not in confidence |
Of author's pen or actor's voice, but suited |
In like conditions as our argument, |
To tell you, fair beholders, that our play |
Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, |
Beginning in the middle; starting thence away |
To what may be digested in a play. |
Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are: |
Now good or bad, 'tis but the chance of war. |
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