_Thier._ How can he sleep, Whose happiness is laid up in an hour He knows comes stealing towar[d] him, Oh _Martel_! Is't possible the longing Bride, whose wishes Out-runs her fears, can on that day she is married Consume in slumbers, or his Arms rust in ease, That hears the charge, and sees the honor'd purchase Ready to [gild] his valour? Mine is more A power above these passions; this day _France_, _France_ that in want of issue withers with us; And like an aged River, runs his head Into forgotten ways, again I ransome, And his fair course turn right: this day _Thierry_, The Son of _France_, whose manly powers like prisoners Have been tied up, and fetter'd, by one death Give life to thousand ages; this day beauty The envy of the world, Pleasure the glory, Content above the world, desire beyond it Are made mine own, and useful. _Mart._ Happy Woman That dies to do these things. _Thier._ But ten times happier That lives to do the greater; oh _Martel_, The gods have heard me now, and those that scorn'd me, Mothers of many children, and blest fathers That see their issues like the Stars un-number'd, Their comfort more than them, shall in my praises Now teach their Infants songs; and tell their ages From such a Son of mine, or such a Queen, That chaste _Ordella_ brings me blessed marriage The chain that links two Holy Loves together And in the marriage, more than blest _Ordella_, That comes so near the Sacrament it self, The Priests doubt whether purer. _Mart._ Sir, y'are lost. _Thier._ I prethee let me be so. _Mart._ The day wears, And those that have been offering early prayers, Are now retiring homeward. _Thier._ Stand and mark then. _Mart._ Is it the first must suffer. _Thier._ The first Woman. _Mart._ What hand shall do it, Sir? _Thier._ This hand _Martell_, For who less dare presume to give the gods An incense of this offering? _Mart._ Would I were she, For such a way to die, and such a blessing Can never crown my parting. _Enter two men passing over._ _Thier._ What are those? _Mart._ Men, men, Sir, men. _Thier._ The plagues of men light on 'em, They cross my hopes like Hares, who's that? _Enter a Priest._ _Mart._ A Priest, Sir. _Thier._ Would he were gelt. _Mart._ May not these rascals serve, Sir, Well hang'd and quarter'd? _Thier._ No. _Mart._ Here comes a woman. _Enter_ Ordella _veil'd_. _Thier._ Stand and behold her then. _Mart._ I think a fair one.