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[Exit an Attendant.]

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain’s top,

And mark the musical confusion

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hip.

I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,

When in a wood of Crete they bay’d the bear

With hounds of Sparta. Never did I hear

Such gallant chiding; for besides the groves,

The skies, the fountains, every region near

Seem all one mutual cry. I never heard

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

The.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind;

So flew’d, so sanded; and their heads are hung

With ears that sweep away the morning dew;

Crook-knee’d, and dewlapp’d like Thessalian bulls;

Slow in pursuit; but match’d in mouth like bells,

Each under each. A cry more tuneable

Was never hollow’d to, nor cheer’d with horn,

In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly.

Judge when you hear. But soft! What nymphs are these?

Ege.

My lord, this’ my daughter here asleep,

And this Lysander, this Demetrius is,

This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena.

I wonder of their being here together.