PERITHOUS. I ghesse he is a Prince too, And, if it may be, greater; for his show Has all the ornament of honour in’t: Hee’s somewhat bigger, then 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 owne: In’s face appeares All the faire hopes of what he undertakes, And when he’s angry, then a setled valour (Not tainted with extreames) runs through his body, And guides his arme to brave things: Feare he cannot, He shewes no such soft temper; his head’s yellow, Hard hayr’d, and curld, thicke twind like Ivy tods, Not to undoe with thunder; In his face The liverie of the warlike Maide appeares, Pure red, and white, for yet no beard has blest him. And in his rowling eyes sits victory, As if she ever ment to court 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? PERITHOUS. When he speakes, his tongue Sounds like a Trumpet; All his lyneaments Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and cleane, He weares a well-steeld Axe, the staffe of gold; His age some five and twenty. MESSENGER. Ther’s another, A little man, but of a tough soule, seeming As great as any: fairer promises In such a Body yet I never look’d on. PERITHOUS. O, he that’s freckle fac’d? MESSENGER. The same, my Lord; Are they not sweet ones? PERITHOUS. Yes, they are well. MESSENGER. Me thinkes, Being so few, and well disposd, they show Great, and fine art in nature: he’s white hair’d, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an aborne; tough, and nimble set, Which showes an active soule; his armes are brawny, Linde with strong sinewes: To the shoulder peece Gently they swell, like women new conceav’d, Which speakes him prone to labour, never fainting Vnder the waight of Armes; stout harted, still, But when he stirs, a Tiger; he’s gray eyd, Which yeelds compassion where he conquers: sharpe To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his: He do’s no wrongs, Nor takes none; he’s round fac’d, and when he smiles He showes a Lover, when he frownes, a Souldier: About his head he weares the winners oke, And in it stucke the favour of his Lady: His age, some six and thirtie. In his hand He beares a charging Staffe, embost with silver. THESEUS. Are they all thus? PERITHOUS. They are all the sonnes of honour. THESEUS. Now, as I have a soule, I long to see’em. Lady, you shall see men fight now. HIPPOLITA. I wish it, But not the cause, my Lord; They would show Bravely about the Titles of two Kingdomes; Tis pitty Love should be so tyrannous: O my soft harted Sister, what thinke you? Weepe not, till they weepe blood, Wench; it must be. THESEUS. You have steel’d ’em with your Beautie.—Honord Friend, To you I give the Feild; pray, order it Fitting the persons that must use it. PERITHOUS. Yes, Sir.