And put his lance in rest.
Percy’s Reliques.
Eftsoons the wight, withouten more delay,
Spurr’d his brown barb, and rode full swiftly on his way.
Spenser.
Hark! was it not the trumpet’s voice I heard?
The soul of battle is awake within me!
The fate of ages and of empires hangs
On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms?
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed!