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?