Now while the heralds run the lists around,
  And Arcite!  Arcite! heaven and earth resound;
  A miracle (nor less it could be call’d)
  Their joy with unexpected sorrow pall’d. 
  The victor knight had laid his helm aside,
  Part for his ease, the greater part for pride;
  Bare-headed, popularly low he bow’d,
  And paid the salutations of the crowd. 690
  Then spurring at full speed, ran endlong on
  Where Theseus sate on his imperial throne;
  Furious he drove, and upward cast his eye,
  Where, next the queen, was placed his Emily;
  Then passing, to the saddle-bow he bent: 
  A sweet regard the gracious virgin lent;
  (For women, to the brave an easy prey,
  Still follow Fortune where she leads the way): 
  Just then, from earth sprung out a flashing fire,
  By Pluto sent, at Saturn’s bad desire:  700
  The startling steed was seized with sudden fright,
  And, bounding, o’er the pommel cast the knight: 
  Forward he flew, and pitching on his head,
  He quiver’d with his feet, and lay for dead. 
  Black was his countenance in a little space,
  For all the blood was gather’d in his face. 
  Help was at hand:  they rear’d him from the ground,
  And from his cumbrous arms his limbs unbound;
  Then lanced a vein, and watch’d returning breath;
  It came, but clogg’d with symptoms of his death. 710
  The saddle-bow the noble parts had press’d,
  All bruised and mortified his manly breast. 
  Him still entranced, and in a litter laid,
  They bore from field, and to his bed convey’d. 
  At length he waked, and with a feeble cry,
  The word he first pronounced was “Emily.”

    Mean time the king, though inwardly he mourn’d,
  In pomp triumphant to the town return’d,
  Attended by the chiefs, who fought the field;
  (Now friendly mix’d, and in one troop compell’d.) 720
  Composed his looks to counterfeited cheer,
  And bade them not for Arcite’s life to fear. 
  But that which gladded all the warrior train,
  Though most were sorely wounded, none were slain. 
  The surgeons soon despoil’d them of their arms,
  And some with salves they cure, and some with charms;
  Foment the bruises, and the pains assuage,
  And heal their inward hurts with sovereign draughts of sage. 
  The king in person visits all around,
  Comforts the sick, congratulates the sound; 730
  Honours the princely chiefs, rewards the rest,
  And holds for thrice three days a royal feast. 
  None was disgraced; for falling is no shame;
  And cowardice alone is loss of fame. 
  The venturous knight is from the saddle thrown;
  But ’tis the fault of Fortune, not his own,
  If crowds and palms the conquering side adorn,
  The victor under better stars was born: 
  The brave man seeks not popular applause,
  Nor, overpower’d with arms, deserts his cause; 740
  Unshamed, though foil’d, he does the best he can;
  Force is of brutes, but honour is of man.