To those that would and cannot, a Rejoycer. Yea him I do not love, that tells close offices The foulest way, nor names concealments in The boldest language, such a one I am, And vow that lover never yet made sigh Truer than I. Oh then most soft sweet goddess Give me the victory of this question, which Is true loves merit, and bless me with a sign Of thy great pleasure. [_Here Musick is heard, Doves are seen to flutter, they_ _fall again upon their faces, then on their knees._ _Pal._ Oh thou that from eleven to ninety reign'st In mortal bosoms, whose Chase is this world And we in Herds thy Game; I give thee thanks For this fair Token, which being laid unto Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance [_They bow._ My body to this business; Let us rise And bow before the goddess: Time comes on. [_Exeunt. Still Musick of Records._ _Enter_ Emilia _in white, her hair about her shoulders, a wheaten_ _wreath: One in white, holding up her train, her hair stuck_ _with Flowers: One before her carrying a silver Hynd, in_ _which is conveyed Incense and sweet odors, which being set_ _upon the Altar, her Maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it,_ _then they curt'sy and kneel._ _Emil._ Oh sacred, shadowy, cold and constant Queen, Abandoner of Revels, mute contemplative, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wind-fan'd Snow, who to thy femal Knights Allow'st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their Orders Robe. I here thy Priest Am humbled for thine Altar, oh vouchsafe With that thy rare green eye, which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look on thy Virgin, And sacred silver Mistriss, lend thine ear (Which ne'r heard scurril term, into whose port Ne'er entred wanton sound,) to my petition Season'd with holy fear; this is my last Of vestal office, I'm Bride-habited, But Maiden-hearted: a Husband I have pointed, But do not know him, out of two, I should Choose one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election of mine eyes, Were I to lose one, they are equal precious, I could doome neither, that which perish'd should Goe to't unsentenc'd: Therefore most modest Queen, He of the two Pretenders, that best loves me And has the truest Title in't, let him Take off my wheaten Garland, or else grant The file and quality I hold, I may Continue in thy Band. [_Here the Hind vanishes under the Altar: and_ _in the place ascends a Rose-Tree, having one_ _Rose upon it._