To the illustrious princess Elizabeth, duchess of Somerset.

Madam,

Having met with success in a poem of this nature, I was encouraged to proceed and lay the scene again in a country that, perhaps, has not been, nor is now inferior for heroic personages to any part of the world, and if it is not so esteemed, it has been through the dullness of our historians or the ingratitude or designs of our poets, who may think it an easier course to write of the improbable and romantic actions of princes remote, both by distance of time and place, than to be confined at home, where every schoolboy has a right to be a critic and every gentleman an interest to stand the champion of his family against a rash and inconsiderate author. I say not this to derogate from those excellency of your real perfections, and though her merits raised her to a crown and she was queen, her fortunes were less miraculous than yours. For heaven, without a diadem, never showered down so many admirable blessings of virtue, beauty, birth, wit and fortune upon any one of your sex before. I dare no further attempt their description with my ignorance, lest I speak too meanly or irreverently of them; therefore, I will leave the mighty subject to some more glorious pen. For none but a Cowley, or the best of laureates, ought to write of you. My mean stile has no other ornament than truth, and with that and in all humility, I return thanks for your most gracious acceptance of so poor a trifle, which has scarce given a more happy life to the play than it has to the author, who is, Madam,

Your Grace's most humble, most obedient and most devoted servant,

J. Banks.