On this dread hour. Why am I not in arms?
Bring my good lance, caparison my steed!
Base, idle grooms! are ye in league against me?
Haste with my barb, or by the holy saints,
Ye shall not live to saddle him to-morrow.
Massinger.
No sooner had the pearl-shedding fingers of the young Aurora tremulously unlocked the oriental portals of the golden horizon, than the graceful flower of chivalry, and the bright cynosure of ladies eyes—he of the dazzling breast-plate and swanlike plume—sprang impatiently from the couch of slumber, and eagerly mounted the noble barb presented to him by the Emperor of Aspromontania.
Sir Philip Sidney, Arcadia.
See’st thou yon chief whose presence seems to rule
The storm of battle? Lo! where’er he moves