The Wooden O

To the gentle Reader, who blesseth with his sight this unworthy Chronicle: Greetings.

Good gentles, if my words be overbold,
Pardon I crave. I come with all good will
In mine own person. When my tale is told,
Be you content, and I your servant still.
More than this earth I never did desire,
This little O where I have sometime play’d;
To higher stage I never did aspire
Than good oak boards by London joyners laid.
My small time pass’d, I too did pass away
Unto strange realms of peace perpetuall,
Whereof I strongly am forbid to say
A word—else, gentles, I would tell you all.
Yet e’en in that fair land mine eyes did long
Once to behold this earthly stage again;
Amid the pageants of the starry throng
I sigh’d to hear the daily plays of men
And women too: wherefore I am returned
There whence mine inspiration first did spring:
My prologue done, to you mine eyes are turned.
The stage is now your own: Your play’s the thing
Brings forth my words. So, gentles, think no ill;
For all that’s done here is by your good will.