Now while the heralds run the lists around, And Arcite! Arcite! heaven and earth resound, A miracle (nor less it could be called) Their joy with unexpected sorrow palled. The victor knight had laid his helm aside, Part for his ease, the greater part for pride: Bareheaded, popularly low he bowed, And paid the salutations of the crowd; Then spurring, at full speed, ran headlong on Where Theseus sat on his imperial throne; Furious he drove, and upward cast his eye, Where, next the Queen, was placed his Emily; Then passing, to the saddle-bow he bent; A sweet regard the gracious virgin lent; (For women, to the brave an easy prey, Still follow Fortune, where she leads the way:) Just then from earth sprung out a flashing fire, By Pluto sent, at Saturn's bad desire: The startling steed was seized with sudden fright, And, bounding, o'er the pummel cast the knight; Forward he flew, and pitching on his head, He quivered with his feet, and lay for dead. Black was his countenance in a little space, For all the blood was gathered in his face. Help was at hand: they reared him from the ground, And from his cumbrous arms his limbs unbound; Then lanced a vein, and watched returning breath; It came, but clogged with symptoms of his death. The saddle-bow the noble parts had prest, All bruised and mortified his manly breast. Him still entranced, and in a litter laid, They bore from field, and to his bed conveyed. At length he waked; and, with a feeble cry, The word he first pronounced was Emily. Mean time the King, though inwardly he mourned, In pomp triumphant to the town returned, Attended by the chiefs who fought the field, (Now friendly mixed, and in one troop compelled;) Composed his looks to counterfeited cheer, And bade them not for Arcite's life to fear. But that which gladded all the warrior train, Though most were sorely wounded, none were slain. The surgeons soon despoiled them of their arms, And some with salves they cure, and some with charms; Foment the bruises, and the pains assuage, And heal their inward hurts with sovereign draughts of sage. The King in person visits all around, Comforts the sick, congratulates the sound; Honours the princely chiefs, rewards the rest, And holds for thrice three days a royal feast. None was disgraced; for falling is no shame, And cowardice alone is loss of fame. The venturous knight is from the saddle thrown, But 'tis the fault of fortune, not his own; If crowds and palms the conquering side adorn, The victor under better stars was born: The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpowered with arms, deserts his canse; Unshamed, though foiled, he does the best he can: Force is of brutes, but honour is of man.