He ended; and the Archangel soon drew nigh, Not in his shape celestial, but as man Clad to meet man. Over his lucid arms A military vest of purple flowed, Livelier than Meliboean, or the grain Of Sarra, worn by kings and heroes old In time of truce; Iris had dipt the woof. His starry helm unbuckled showed him prime In manhood where youth ended; by his side, As in a glistering zodiac, hung the sword, Satan’s dire dread, and in his hand the spear. Adam bowed low; he, kingly, from his state Inclined not, but his coming thus declared: