SCENE I. Sicilia. A Street in some Town.

Enter Cleomenes and Dion .

CLEOMENES The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears.

DION. I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits (Methinks I so should term them) and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice! How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly, It was i’ th’ offering!

CLEOMENES But of all, the burst And the ear-deaf’ning voice o’ th’ oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised my sense That I was nothing.

DION. If the event o’ th’ journey Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be’t so!— As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, The time is worth the use on’t.

CLEOMENES Great Apollo Turn all to th’ best! These proclamations, So forcing faults upon Hermione, I little like.

DION. The violent carriage of it Will clear or end the business: when the oracle, (Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up) Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses! And gracious be the issue!

[ Exeunt. ]