| [Enter Chorus] |
| Chorus | Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen, |
| Our bending author hath pursued the story, |
| In little room confining mighty men, |
| Mangling by starts the full course of their glory. |
| Small time, but in that small most greatly lived | 5 |
| This star of England: Fortune made his sword; |
| By which the world's best garden be achieved, |
| And of it left his son imperial lord. |
| Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King |
| Of France and England, did this king succeed; | 10 |
| Whose state so many had the managing, |
| That they lost France and made his England bleed: |
| Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake, |
| In your fair minds let this acceptance take. |
| [Exit] |
