Are the knights ready to begin the triumph?
They are, my liege;
And stay your coming to present themselves.
Return them, we are ready; and our daughter,
In honour of whose birth these triumphs are,
Sits here, like beauty's child, whom nature gat
For men to see, and seeing wonder at.
It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express
My commendations great, whose merit's less.
It's fit it should be so; for princes are
A model which heaven makes like to itself:
As jewels lose their glory if neglected,
So princes their renowns if not respected.
'Tis now your honour, daughter, to explain
The labour of each knight in his device.
Which, to preserve mine honour, I'll perform.
Who is the first that doth prefer himself?
A knight of Sparta, my renowned father;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun
The word, 'Lux tua vita mihi.'
He loves you well that holds his life of you.
Who is the second that presents himself?
A prince of Macedon, my royal father;
And the device he bears upon his shield
Is an arm'd knight that's conquer'd by a lady;
The motto thus, in Spanish, 'Piu por dulzura que por fuerza.'
And what's the third?
The third of Antioch;
And his device, a wreath of chivalry;
The word, 'Me pompae provexit apex.'
What is the fourth?
A burning torch that's turned upside down;
The word, 'Quod me alit, me extinguit.'
Which shows that beauty hath his power and will,
Which can as well inflame as it can kill.
The fifth, an hand environed with clouds,
Holding out gold that's by the touchstone tried;
The motto thus, 'Sic spectanda fides.'
And what's
The sixth and last, the which the knight himself
With such a graceful courtesy deliver'd?
He seems to be a stranger; but his present is
A wither'd branch, that's only green at top;
The motto, 'In hac spe vivo.'
A pretty moral;
From the dejected state wherein he is,
He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish.
He had need mean better than his outward show
Can any way speak in his just commend;
For by his rusty outside he appears
To have practised more the whipstock than the lance.
He well may be a stranger, for he comes
To an honour'd triumph strangely furnished.
And on set purpose let his armour rust
Until this day, to scour it in the dust.
Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan
The outward habit by the inward man.
But stay, the knights are coming: we will withdraw
Into the gallery.