_1 Qu._ Oh this celebration Will long last, and be more costly than Your Suppliants war: Remember that your Fame Knowls in the ear o'th' world: what you do quickly, Is not done rashly; your first thought is more, Than others laboured meditance: your premeditating More than their actions: But oh _Jove_, your actions, Soon as they move, as Asprays do the fish, Subdue before they touch: think, dear Duke think What beds our slain Kings have. _2 Qu._ What griefs our beds That our dear Lords have none. _3 Qu._ None fit for th' dead: Those that with Cords, Knives, Drams precipitance, Weary of this worlds light, have to themselves Been deaths most horrid Agents, humane grace Affords them dust and shadow. _1 Qu._ But our Lords Lie blist'ring 'fore the visitating Sun, And were good Kings, when living. _Thes._ It is true, and I will give you comfort, To give your dead Lords graves: The which to do must make some work with _Creon_. _1 Qu._ And that work presents it self to th' doing: Now 'twill take form, the heats are gone to morrow, Then bootless toil must recompence it self, With its own sweat; Now he's secure, Not dre[a]ms, we stand before your puissance Wrinching our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear. _2 Qu._ Now you may take him, Drunk with his victory. _3 Qu._ And his Army full Of Bread, and sloth. _Thes. Artesis_ that best knowest How to draw out, fit to this enterprize, The prim'st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business, forth and levy Our worthiest Instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of Fate in wedlock. _1 Qu._ Dowagers, take hands Let us be Widows to our woes, delay Commends us to a famishing hope. _All._ Farewell. _2 Qu._ We come unseasonably: But when could grief Cull forth as unpanged judgement can, fit'st time For best solicitation. _Thes._ Why good Ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any was; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope. _1 Qu._ The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected, when her Arms, Able to lock _Jove_ from a Synod, shall By warranting Moon-light corslet thee, oh when Her twining Cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tastful Lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten Kings, or blubber'd Queens, what care For what thou feel'st not? what thou feel'st being able To make _Mars_ spurn his Drom. Oh if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in't will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more, than what That Banquet bids thee too.