[Enter Hymen with a Torch burning: a Boy, in a white Robe before singing, and strewing Flowres: After Hymen, a Nimph, encompast in her Tresses, bearing a wheaten Garland. Then Theseus betweene two other Nimphs with wheaten Chaplets on their heades. Then Hipolita the Bride, lead by Pirithous, and another holding a Garland over her head (her Tresses likewise hanging.) After her Emilia holding up her Traine. (Artesius and Attendants.)] The Song, [Musike.] Roses their sharpe spines being gon, Not royall in their smels alone, But in their hew. Maiden Pinckes, of odour faint, Dazies smel-lesse, yet most quaint And sweet Time true. Prim-rose first borne child of Ver, Merry Spring times Herbinger, With her bels dimme. Oxlips, in their Cradles growing, Mary-golds, on death beds blowing, Larkes-heeles trymme. All deere natures children sweete, Ly fore Bride and Bridegroomes feete, [Strew Flowers.] Blessing their sence. Not an angle of the aire, Bird melodious, or bird faire, Is absent hence. The Crow, the slaundrous Cuckoe, nor The boding Raven, nor Chough hore Nor chattring Pie, May on our Bridehouse pearch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly. [Enter 3. Queenes in Blacke, with vailes staind, with imperiall Crownes. The 1. Queene fals downe at the foote of Theseus; The 2. fals downe at the foote of Hypolita. The 3. before Emilia.] 1. QUEEN. For pitties sake and true gentilities, Heare, and respect me. 2. QUEEN. For your Mothers sake, And as you wish your womb may thrive with faire ones, Heare and respect me. 3. QUEEN Now for the love of him whom Iove hath markd The honour of your Bed, and for the sake Of cleere virginity, be Advocate For us, and our distresses. This good deede Shall raze you out o’th Booke of Trespasses All you are set downe there. THESEUS. Sad Lady, rise. HIPPOLITA. Stand up. EMILIA. No knees to me. What woman I may steed that is distrest, Does bind me to her. THESEUS. What’s your request? Deliver you for all. 1. QUEEN. We are 3. Queenes, whose Soveraignes fel before The wrath of cruell Creon; who endured The Beakes of Ravens, Tallents of the Kights, And pecks of Crowes, in the fowle feilds of Thebs. He will not suffer us to burne their bones, To urne their ashes, nor to take th’ offence Of mortall loathsomenes from the blest eye Of holy Phoebus, but infects the windes With stench of our slaine Lords. O pitty, Duke: Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feard Sword That does good turnes to’th world; give us the Bones Of our dead Kings, that we may Chappell them; And of thy boundles goodnes take some note That for our crowned heades we have no roofe, Save this which is the Lyons, and the Beares, And vault to every thing.