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