Just is your suit, fair daughter, said the dame: Those laurell'd chiefs were men of mighty fame; Nine worthies were they call'd of different rites, Three Jews, three Pagans, and three Christian knights. These, as you see, ride foremost in the field, As they the foremost rank of honour held, And all in deeds of chivalry excell'd: Their temples wreathed with leaves, that still renew; 540 For deathless laurel is the victor's due: Who bear the bows were knights in Arthur's reign, Twelve they, and twelve the peers of Charlemagne: For bows the strength of brawny arms imply, Emblems of valour, and of victory. Behold an order yet of newer date, Doubling their number, equal in their state; Our England's ornament, the crown's defence, In battle brave, protectors of their prince; Unchanged by fortune, to their sovereign true, 550 For which their manly legs are bound with blue. These, of the Garter call'd, of faith unstain'd, In fighting fields the laurel have obtain'd, And well repaid the honours which they gain'd. The laurel wreaths were first by Cesar worn, And still they Cesar's successors adorn: One leaf of this is immortality, And more of worth than all the world can buy. One doubt remains, said I, the dames in green, What were their qualities, and who their queen? 560 Flora commands, said she, those nymphs and knights, Who lived in slothful ease and loose delights; Who never acts of honour durst pursue, The men inglorious knights, the ladies all untrue: Who, nursed in idleness, and train'd in courts, Pass'd all their precious hours in plays, and sports, Till death behind came stalking on, unseen, And wither'd (like the storm) the freshness of their green. These, and their mates, enjoy their present hour, And therefore pay their homage to the Flower: 570 But knights in knightly deeds should persevere, And still continue what at first they were; Continue, and proceed in honour's fair career. No room for cowardice, or dull delay; From good to better they should urge their way. For this with golden spurs the chiefs are graced, With pointed rowels arm'd to mend their haste; For this with lasting leaves their brows are bound; For laurel is the sign of labour crown'd, Which bears the bitter blast, nor shaken falls to ground: 580 From winter winds it suffers no decay, For ever fresh and fair, and every month is May. Even when the vital sap retreats below, Even when the hoary head is hid in snow, The life is in the Leaf, and still between The fits of falling snow appears the streaky green. Not so the Flower, which lasts for little space, A short-lived good, and an uncertain grace; This way, and that, the feeble stem is driven, Weak to sustain the storms and injuries of heaven. 590 Propp'd by the spring, it lifts aloft the head,