Messenger
Bring me before the queen and I will speak.
CHORUS.
Lo, she comes forth as from thank-offering made.
Messenger
A barren offering for a bitter gift.
Althaea
What are these borne on branches, and the face
Covered? no mean men living, but now slain
Such honour have they, if any dwell with death.
Messenger
Queen, thy twain brethren and thy mother’s sons.
Althaea
Lay down your dead till I behold their blood
If it be mine indeed, and I will weep.
Messenger
Weep if thou wilt, for these men shall no more.
Althaea
O brethren, O my father’s sons, of me
Well loved and well reputed, I should weep
Tears dearer than the dear blood drawn from you
But that I know you not uncomforted,
Sleeping no shameful sleep, however slain,
For my son surely hath avenged you dead.