Prologue

I COME but as a harbinger, being sent To tell you what these preparations mean. Look for no glorious state; our Muse is bent Upon a barren subject, a bare scene. We could afford this twig a timber-tree, Whose strength might boldly on your favours build; Our russet, tissue; drone, a honey-bee; Our barren plot, a large and spacious field; Our coarse fare, banquets; our thin water, wine; Our brook, a sea; our bat's eyes, eagle's sight; Our poet's dull and earthly Muse, divine; Our ravens, doves; our crow's black feathers, white. But gentle thoughts, when they may give the foil, Save them that yield, and spare where they may spoil.