Theseus himself, who should have cheer'd the grief Of others, wanted now the same relief; Old Egeus only could revive his son, Who various changes of the world had known, And strange vicissitudes of human fate, Still altering, never in a steady state; 880 Good after ill, and, after pain, delight, Alternate like the scenes of day and night: Since every man who lives, is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy, nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end. Even kings but play; and when their part is done, Some other, worse or better, mount the throne. 890 With words like these the crowd was satisfied, And so they would have been, had Theseus died. But he, their king, was labouring in his mind, A fitting place for funeral pomps to find, Which were in honour of the dead design'd. And after long debate, at last he found (As love itself had mark'd the spot of ground) That grove for ever green, that conscious laund, Where he with Palamon fought hand to hand: That where he fed his amorous desires 900 With soft complaints, and felt his hottest fires; There other flames might waste his earthly part, And burn his limbs, where love had burn'd his heart. This once resolved, the peasants were enjoin'd Sere-wood, and firs, and dodder'd oaks to find. With sounding axes to the grove they go, Fell, split, and lay the fuel on a row, Vulcanian food: a bier is next prepared, On which the lifeless body should be rear'd, Cover'd with cloth of gold, on which was laid 910 The corpse of Arcite, in like robes array'd. White gloves were on his hands, and on his head A wreath of laurel, mix'd with myrtle spread. A sword keen-edged within his right he held, The warlike emblem of the conquer'd field: Bare was his manly visage on the bier: Menaced his countenance; even in death severe. Then to the palace-hall they bore the knight, To lie in solemn state, a public sight. Groans, cries, and howlings fill the crowded place, 920 And unaffected sorrow sate on every face. Sad Palamon above the rest appears, In sable garments, dew'd with gushing tears: His auburn locks on either shoulder flow'd, Which to the funeral of his friend he vow'd: But Emily, as chief, was next his side, A virgin-widow, and a mourning bride. And that the princely obsequies might be Perform'd according to his high degree, The steed, that bore him living to the fight, 930 Was trapp'd with polish'd steel, all shining bright, And cover'd with the achievements of the knight. The riders rode abreast, and one his shield, His lance of cornel-wood another held; The third his bow, and, glorious to behold,