The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet,

Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing

The common praise it bears.

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!

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.

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.

Great Apollo

Turn all to th’ best! These proclamations,

So forcing faults upon Hermione,

I little like.

The violent carriage of it

Will clear or end the business: when the oracle,

Shall the contents discover, something rare

Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses!

And gracious be the issue!