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 entertain

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 forza._

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.