slain, 1080
  And others whelm’d beneath the stormy main. 
  What makes all this, but Jupiter the king,
  At whose command we perish, and we spring? 
  Then ’tis our best, since thus ordain’d to die,
  To make a virtue of necessity. 
  Take what he gives, since to rebel is vain;
  The bad grows better, which we well sustain;
  And could we choose the time, and choose aright,
  ’Tis best to die, our honour at the height. 
  When we have done our ancestors no shame, 1090
  But served our friends, and well secured our fame;
  Then should we wish our happy life to close,
  And leave no more for fortune to dispose: 
  So should we make our death a glad relief
  From future shame, from sickness, and from grief: 
  Enjoying while we live the present hour,
  And dying in our excellence and flower. 
  Then round our death-bed every friend should run,
  And joyous of our conquest early won: 
  While the malicious world with envious tears 1100
  Should grudge our happy end, and wish it theirs. 
  Since then our Arcite is with honour dead,
  Why should we mourn, that he so soon is freed,
  Or call untimely, what the gods decreed? 
  With grief as just, a friend may be deplored
  From a foul prison to free air restored. 
  Ought he to thank his kinsman or his wife,
  Could tears recall him into wretched life? 
  Their sorrow hurts themselves; on him is lost;
  And worse than both, offends his happy ghost. 1110
  What then remains, but, after past annoy,
  To take the good vicissitude of joy? 
  To thank the gracious gods for what they give,
  Possess our souls, and while we live, to live? 
  Ordain we then two sorrows to combine,
  And in one point the extremes of grief to join;
  That thence resulting joy may be renew’d,
  As jarring notes in harmony conclude. 
  Then I propose that Palamon shall be
  In marriage join’d with beauteous Emily; 1120
  For which already I have gain’d the assent
  Of my free people in full parliament. 
  Long love to her has borne the faithful knight,
  And well deserved, had fortune done him right: 
  ’Tis time to mend her fault; since Emily
  By Arcite’s death from former vows is free: 
  If you, fair sister, ratify the accord,
  And take him for your husband, and your lord,
  ’Tis no dishonour to confer your grace
  On one descended from a royal race:  1130
  And were he less, yet years of service past,
  From grateful souls exact reward at last: 
  Pity is Heaven’s and yours; nor can she find
  A throne so soft as in a woman’s mind. 
  He said; she blush’d; and as o’er-awed by might,
  Seem’d to give Theseus what she gave the knight. 
  Then turning to the Theban thus he said: