 | The Black Prince |  |
PROLOGUE Spoken by the Genius of England, holding a Trident in one hand and a Sword in the other.
Is England's, Genius, that Victorious Name,Which shakes the World and fills the mouth of Fame,
So much forgot, as you mispend your Witt
(which my Great Deeds as Greatly might have Writt)
To court a Fancy, or improve a Dreame,
And seek new Worlds for a less noble Theame?
Can you in Armes conspiring Nations see,
And think on any thing but Fame, and Me?
While the loud Cannon, with prophetick sound,
Foretells our King must be in Paris crown'd,
And with such Heat once more invade the French,
As all the Waves between us cannot quench,
To the just fury of whose Fatall Blowes
Fleets, Walls, and Armies they in vaine oppose;
This Trophy, which so gloriously to yours
Add's a fourth Crown, and those four Crownes secures,
The Belgian Admirall usurping bore,
And I from him and all his Tritons tore
He to another Element was blowne,
Who thought himself Immortall in his owne;
For still the Sea his Losses did Repair,
Till our Alcides killd him in the Ayr.
This Sword, which in French blood so often dyed
Intail'd success on the young Edwards side,
Resign'd to you shall all those Arts exceed
Which made him Triumph and that Kingdome Bleed.
Their frighted Lillies shall confess their loss,
Wearing the Crimson livery of your Cross;
And all the World shall learn by their Defeat,
Our Charles, not theirs, deserves the name of Great.
| The Black Prince | |