PIRITHOUS.
O, he that’s freckle-faced?
MESSENGER.
The same, my lord;
Are they not sweet ones?
PIRITHOUS.
Yes, they are well.
MESSENGER.
Methinks,
Being so few and well disposed, they show
Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired,
Not wanton white, but such a manly colour
Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set,
Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny,
Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece
Gently they swell, like women new-conceived,
Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting
Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted still,
But when he stirs, a tiger. He’s grey-eyed,
Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp
To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em,
He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs,
Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles
He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier.
About his head he wears the winner’s oak,
And in it stuck the favour of his lady.
His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand
He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver.
THESEUS.
Are they all thus?
PIRITHOUS.
They are all the sons of honour.
THESEUS.
Now, as I have a soul, I long to see’em.
Lady, you shall see men fight now.
HIPPOLYTA.
I wish it,
But not the cause, my lord. They would show
Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms.
’Tis pity love should be so tyrannous.—
O, my soft-hearted sister, what think you?
Weep not till they weep blood. Wench, it must be.
THESEUS.
You have steeled ’em with your beauty.
Honoured friend,
To you I give the field; pray order it
Fitting the persons that must use it.
PIRITHOUS.
Yes, sir.