ARCITE 

The Duke has lost Hippolyta; each took

A several laund. This is a solemn rite

They owe bloomed May, and the Athenians pay it

To th' heart of ceremony. O Queen Emilia,

Fresher than May, sweeter

Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all

Th' enameled knacks o' th' mead or garden---yea,

We challenge too the bank of any nymph

That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel

O' th' wood, o' th' world, hast likewise blessed a pace

With thy sole presence. In thy rumination

That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between

And chop on some cold thought! Thrice blessèd

chance To drop on such a mistress, expectation

Most guiltless on 't. Tell me, O Lady Fortune,

Next after Emily my sovereign, how far

I may be proud. She takes strong note of me,

Hath made me near her; and this beauteous morn,