Then let my arms prevail, by thee sustained, That Emily by conquest may be gained. Have pity on my pains; nor those unknown To Mars, which, when a lover, were his own. Venus, the public care of all above, Thy stubborn heart has softened into love: Now, by her blandishments and powerful charms, When yielded she lay curling in thy arms, Even by thy shame, if shame it may be called, When Vulcan had thee in his net enthralled; (O envied ignominy, sweet disgrace, When every God that saw thee wished thy place!) By those dear pleasures, aid my arms in fight, And make me conquer in my patron's right: For I am young, a novice in the trade, The fool of love, unpractised to persuade: And want the soothing arts that catch the fair, But, caught myself, lie struggling in the snare; And she I love, or laughs at all my pain, Or knows her worth too well, and pays me with disdain. For sure I am, unless I win in arms, To stand excluded from Emilia's charms: Nor can my strength avail, unless, by thee Endued with force, I gain the victory; Then for the fire which warmed thy generous heart, Pity thy subject's pains, and equal smart. So be the morrow's sweat and labour mine, The palm and honour of the conquest thine: Then shall the war, and stern debate, and strife Immortal, be the business of my life; And in thy fane, the dusty spoils among, High on the burnished roof, my banner shall be hung, Ranked with my champions' bucklers; and below, With arms reversed, the achievements of my foe; And while these limbs the vital spirit feeds, While day to night, and night to day succeeds, Thy smoking altar shall be fat with food Of incense, and the grateful steam of blood; Burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be thine, And fires eternal in thy temple shine. This bush of yellow beard, this length of hair, Which from my birth inviolate I bear, Guiltless of steel, and from the razor free, Shall fall a plenteous crop, reserved for thee. So may my arms with victory be blest, I ask no more, let fate dispose the rest.-- The champion ceased: there followed in the close A hollow groan; a murmuring wind arose; The rings of iron, that on the doors were hung, Sent out a jarring sound, and harshly rung: The bolted gates flew open at the blast, The storm rushed in, and Arcite stood aghast; The flames were blown aside, yet shone they bright, Fanned by the wind, and gave a ruffled light. Then from the ground a scent began to rise, Sweet smelling as accepted sacrifice: This omen pleased, and, as the flames aspire, With odorous incense Arcite heaps the fire: Nor wanted hymns to Mars, or heathen charms: At length the nodding statue clashed his arms, And with a sullen sound and feeble cry, Half-sunk, and half-pronounced the word of victory. For this, with soul devout, he thanked the God, And, of success secure, returned to his abode.