To match this monarch, with strong Arcite came
  Emetrius, king of Ind, a mighty name;
  On a bay courser, goodly to behold,
  The trappings of his horse adorn’d with barbarous gold. 
  Not Mars bestrod a steed with greater grace;
  His surcoat o’er his arms was cloth of Thrace,
  Adorn’d with pearls, all orient, round, and great;
  His saddle was of gold, with emeralds set,
  His shoulders large a mantle did attire, 70
  With rubies thick, and sparkling as the fire: 
  His amber-colour’d locks in ringlets run,
  With graceful negligence, and shone against the sun. 
  His nose was aquiline, his eyes were blue;
  Ruddy his lips, and fresh and fair his hue: 
  Some sprinkled freckles on his face were seen,
  Whose dusk set off the whiteness of the skill: 
  His awful presence did the crowd surprise,
  Nor durst the rash spectator meet his eyes;
  Eyes that confess’d him born for kingly sway, 80
  So fierce, they flash’d intolerable day. 
  His age in nature’s youthful prime appear’d,
  And just began to bloom his yellow beard. 
  Whene’er he spoke, his voice was heard around,
  Loud as a trumpet, with a silver sound;
  A laurel wreathed his temples, fresh and green;
  And myrtle sprigs, the marks of love, were mix’d between. 
  Upon his fist he bore, for his delight,
  An eagle well reclaim’d, and lily white.

    His hundred knights attend him to the war, 90
  All arm’d for battle; save their heads were bare. 
  Words and devices blazed on every shield,
  And pleasing was the terror of the field. 
  For kings, and dukes, and barons, you might see,
  Like sparkling stars, though different in degree,
  All for the increase of arms, and love of chivalry. 
  Before the king tame leopards led the way,
  And troops of lions innocently play. 
  So Bacchus through the conquer’d Indies rode,
  And beasts in gambols frisk’d before their honest god. 100

    In this array, the war of either side
  Through Athens pass’d with military pride. 
  At prime, they enter’d on the Sunday morn;
  Rich tapestry spread the streets, and flowers the posts adorn. 
  The town was all a jubilee of feasts;
  So Theseus will’d, in honour of his guests;
  Himself with open arms the kings embraced,
  Then all the rest in their degrees were graced. 
  No harbinger was needful for the night,
  For every house was proud to lodge a knight. 110

    I pass the royal treat, nor must relate
  The gifts bestow’d, nor how the champions sate: 
  Who first, who last, or how the knights address’d
  Their vows, or who was fairest at the feast;
  Whose voice, whose graceful dance did most surprise;
  Soft amorous sighs, and silent love of eyes. 
  The rivals call my Muse another way,
  To sing their vigils for the ensuing day.