MESSENGER.
From the knights.
THESEUS.
Pray, speak,
You that have seen them, what they are.
MESSENGER.
I will, sir,
And truly what I think. Six braver spirits
Than these they have brought, if we judge by the outside,
I never saw nor read of. He that stands
In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming
Should be a stout man, by his face a prince,
His very looks so say him; his complexion
Nearer a brown than black, stern and yet noble,
Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers;
The circles of his eyes show fire within him,
And as a heated lion so he looks.
His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining
Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong;
Armed long and round; and on his thigh a sword
Hung by a curious baldric, when he frowns
To seal his will with. Better, o’ my conscience,
Was never soldier’s friend.
THESEUS.
Thou hast well described him.
PIRITHOUS.
Yet a great deal short,
Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon.
THESEUS.
Pray, speak him, friend.
PIRITHOUS.
I guess he is a prince too,
And, if it may be, greater; for his show
Has all the ornament of honour in ’t:
He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of,
But of a face far sweeter; his complexion
Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy. He has felt
Without doubt what he fights for, and so apter
To make this cause his own. In ’s face appears
All the fair hopes of what he undertakes
And when he’s angry, then a settled valour,
Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body
And guides his arm to brave things. Fear he cannot;
He shows no such soft temper. His head’s yellow,
Hard-haired and curled, thick-twined like ivy tods,
Not to undo with thunder. In his face
The livery of the warlike maid appears,
Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blessed him;
And in his rolling eyes sits Victory,
As if she ever meant to crown his valour.
His nose stands high, a character of honour;
His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies.
EMILIA.
Must these men die too?
PIRITHOUS.
When he speaks, his tongue
Sounds like a trumpet. All his lineaments
Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean.
He wears a well-steeled axe, the staff of gold;
His age some five-and-twenty.
MESSENGER.
There’s another,
A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming
As great as any; fairer promises
In such a body yet I never looked on.