In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame, A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name; A chief, who more in feats of arms excelled, The rising nor the setting sun beheld. Of Athens he was lord; much land he won, And added foreign countries to his crown. In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove, Whom first by force he conquered, then by love; He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame, With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came. With honour to his home let Theseus ride, } With love to friend, and fortune for his guide, } And his victorious army at his side. } I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array, Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way; But, were it not too long, I would recite } The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight } Betwixt the hardy queen, and hero knight; } The town besieged, and how much blood it cost The female army, and the Athenian host; The spousals of Hippolita the queen; What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen; The storm at their return, the ladies' fear; But these, and other things, I must forbear. The field is spacious I design to sow, With oxen far unfit to draw the plow: The remnant of my tale is of a length To tire your patience, and to waste my strength; And trivial accidents shall be forborne, That others may have time to take their turn; As was at first enjoined us by mine host, } That he whose tale is best, and pleases most, } Should win his supper at our common cost. } And therefore where I left, I will pursue } This ancient story, whether false or true, } In hope it may be mended with a new. } The prince I mentioned, full of high renown, In this array drew near the Athenian town; When in his pomp and utmost of his pride, Marching, he chanced to cast his eye aside, And saw a choir of mourning dames, who lay, By two and two, across the common way: At his approach they raised a rueful cry, And beat their breasts, and held their hands on high; Creeping and crying, till they seized at last, His courser's bridle, and his feet embraced. Tell me, said Theseus, what and whence you are, And why this funeral pageant you prepare? Is this the welcome of my worthy deeds, To meet my triumph, in ill-omened weeds? Or envy you my praise, and would destroy With grief my pleasures, and pollute my joy? Or are you injured, and demand relief? Name your request, and I will ease your grief.-- The most in years, of all the mourning train, Began; but swooned first away for pain: Then, scarce recovered, spoke;--Nor envy we Thy great renown, nor grudge thy victory: 'Tis thine, O king, the afflicted to redress, And fame has filled the world with thy success: We wretched women sue for that alone, Which of thy goodness is refused to none;