To her Royal Highness, the princess Anne of Denmark.

Madam,

I confess I am so transported at the honour you have done this poor play that I know not in what terms to pay my devotion to Your Highness. I am not insensible too of my own unworthiness and that it is a presumption, even in the best of this kind, to think to gain admittance into the closet of so great a princess. But when I consider that no present of what value soever can be made suitable to one of your illustrious character, it gives me encouragement to hope this trifle may not be less acceptable to your royal goodness than a pitcher of water was to the great monarch of the world, from the hands of a mean soldier. It were profaneness in me any longer to divert with my rude pen your divine thoughts and precious moments, that are still employed above in imploring blessings for the nation, and more profane to sully the crystal mirror of so many incomparable virtues with the coarse breath of mortal praise.

I most humbly ask leave then to withdraw from a subject so much above my capacity and merit (a task fit only for the angels you converse with) and pray my muse may have the happiness to conclude, who groans to be delivered of her duty, in these homely, but hearty thanks.

Accept, great princess, this small offering,

This humble mite I to your treasure bring,

The poor mean present of a bended muse,

Amidst the heaps of all the wealthier Jews,

A banished play that tedious years had mourned,

Blessed with your favour, by your smiles returned,

Writ and designed for this immortal grace,

Ere my then happier favourite* took place;   *Earl of Essex

But though the younger first the blessing had,

This brings no less devotion that has stayed:

The grateful peasant thus before he's stored,

Gives his first fruits of plenty to his lord.

Since this had never lived but for your sake,

It is just I give you what yourself did make:

For the great Cyrus being but a child,

And in his cradle destined to be killed,

Your Highness his divine Panthea now,

Has raised him both to empire and to you.

The God of Love, who in the scene departs,

Bequeaths to you his quiver and his darts,

And, what is more, his title to all hearts,

Whilst at your feet, the mighty monarch lays

His conquered crowns, as humbly I the bays.

Happy was he that presence to engage,

That cheered the world and brought to life the stage,

Where the sad Muses, since they lost their queen,

Never till that day did tune their songs again.

The ravished crowds adored you as you rode,

Like spring in April coming first abroad.

My humble Muse, then, that did grovelling lie,

Soared like an eagle through the vaulted sky,

Forgot the disappointments that she had,

Raved with fierce joy and ran with pleasure mad.

Two labours of her brain*, this play the third,    *Queen of Scots; Lady Jane Grey

Through spite and envy were the stage debarred,

Cast and never tried, condemned and never heard.

Thus drooped your poet, saw his laurels stained,

Or robbed by others who more favour gained;

But time he hopes and pity in your breast,

Will bring them both to life, as this is blessed .

Your Royal Highness’s most humble, most devoted and most obedient servant,

J. Banks.