[Exit Theseus.]
Chorus: Great nature, mother of the gods,
And thou, fire-girt Olympus' lord,960
Who speedest through the flying skies
The scattered stars, the wandering ways
Of constellations, and the heavens
Upon their whirling axes turn'st:
Why is thy care so great to keep
The annual highways of the air,965
That now the hoary frosts may strip