The Prologue

I come but like 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 earthy 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.