SCENE II.--_A Grove.

_Enter_ ORLANDO _like a poet, and_ ORGALIO.

_Orl._ Orgalio, is not my love like those purple-colour'd swans That gallop by the coach of Cynthia?

_Org._ Yes, marry, is she, my lord.

_Orl._ Is not her face silver'd like that milk-white shape That Jove came dancing in to Semele?

_Org._ It is, my lord.

_Orl._ Then go thy ways, and climb up to the clouds, And tell Apollo that Orlando sits Making of verses for Angelica. And if he do deny to send me down The shirt which Deianira sent to Hercules, To make me brave upon my wedding day, Tell him I'll pass the Alps, and up to Meroe, (I know he knows that watery lakish hill,) And pull the harp out of the minstrel's hands, And pawn it unto lovely Proserpine, That she may fetch the fair Angelica.

_Org._ But, my lord, Apollo is asleep, and will not hear me.

_Orl._ Then tell him, he is a sleepy knave: but, sirrah, let nobody trouble me, for I must lie down a while, and talk with the stars. [_Lies down and sleeps._

_Enter a_ Fiddler.

_Org._ What, old acquaintance! well met.[161]

_Fid._ Ho, you would have me play Angelica again, would ye not?

_Org._ No, but I can tell thee where thou may'st earn two or three shillings this morning, even with the turning of a hand.

_Fid._ Two or three shillings! tush, thou wolt cozen me, thou: but an thou canst tell where I may earn a groat, I'll give thee sixpence for thy pains.

_Org._ Then play a fit of mirth to my lord.

_Fid._ Why, he is mad still, is he not?

_Org._ No, no: come, play.

_Fid._ At which side doth he use to give his reward?

_Org._ Why, of any side.

_Fid._ Doth he not use to throw the chamber-pot sometimes? 'Twould grieve me he should wet my fiddle-strings.

_Org._ Tush, I warrant thee. [_The_ Fiddler _plays and sings any odd fey, and_ ORLANDO _wakes._

_Orl._ Who is this? Shan Cuttelero! heartily welcome, Shan Cuttelero.

_Fid._ No, sir, you should have said "Shan the Fidideldero."

_Orl._ What, hast thou brought me a sword? [_Takes away his fiddle._

_Fid._ A sword! no, no, sir, that's my fiddle.

_Orl._ But dost thou think the temper to be good? And will it hold, when thus and thus we Medor do assail? [_Strikes and beats him with the fiddle._

_Fid._ Lord, sir, you'll break my living!--[_to_ ORGALIO] You told me your master was not mad.

_Orl._ Tell me, why hast thou marr'd my sword? The pummel's well, the blade is curtal short: Villain, why hast thou made it so? [_Breaks the fiddle about his head._

_Fid._ O Lord, sir, will you answer this? [_Exit._

_Enter_ MELISSA _with a glass of wine._

_Orl._ Orgalio, who is this?

_Org._ Faith, my lord, some old witch, I think.

_Mel._ O, that my lord would but conceit[162] my tale! Then would I speak and hope to find redress.

_Orl._ Fair Polixena, the pride of Ilion Fear not Achilles' over-madding boy; Pyrrhus shall not, etc.--[163] Souns, Orgalio, why sufferest thou this old trot to come so nigh me?

_Org._ Come, come, stand by, your breath stinks.

_Orl._ What! be all the Trojans fled? Then give me some drink.

_Mel._ Here, Palatine, drink; and ever be thou better for this draught.

_Orl._ What's here? The paltry bottle that Darius quaff'd? [_He drinks, and she charms him with her wand, and he lies down to sleep._ Else would I set my mouth to Tigris' streams, And drink up overflowing Euphrates. My eyes are heavy, and I needs must sleep.

[MELISSA _strikes with her wand, and the_ Satyrs _enter with music; and play round about him; which done, they stay; he awakes and speaks._

What shows are these, that fill mine eyes With view of such regard as heaven admires To see my slumbering dreams! Skies are fulfill'd with lamps of lasting joy, That boast the pride of haught Latona's son; He lighteneth all the candles of the night. Mnemosyne hath kiss'd the kingly Jove, And entertain'd a feast within my brains, Making her daughters'[164] solace on my brow. Methinks, I feel how Cynthia tunes conceits Of sad repeat, and melloweth those desires Which frenzy scarce had ripen'd in my head. Ate, I'll kiss thy restless cheek a while, And suffer fruitless passion bide control. [_Lies down again._

_Mel. O vos Silvani, Satyri, Faunique, deæque,_ _Nymphæ, Hamadryades, Dryades, Parcæque potentes!_ _O vos qui colitis lacusque locosque profundos,_ _Infernasque domus et nigra palatia Ditis!_ _Tuque Demogorgon, qui noctis fata gubernas,_ _Qui regis infernum solium, cælumque, solumque!_ _Exaudite preces, filiasque auferte micantes;_ _In caput Orlandi celestes spargite lymphas,_ _Spargite, quis misere revocetur rapta per umbras_ _Orlandi infelix anima._ [_Then let the music play before him, and so go forth._

_Orl._ What sights, what shows, what fearful shapes are these? More dreadful than appear'd to Hecuba, When fall of Troy was figur'd in her sleep! Juno, methought, sent down from heaven by Jove, Came swiftly sweeping through the gloomy air; And calling Iris, sent her straight abroad To summon Fauns, the Satyrs, and the Nymphs, The Dryads, and all the demigods, To secret council; [and, their] parle past,[165] She gave them vials full of heavenly dew. With that, mounted upon her parti-coloured coach, Being drawn with peacocks proudly through the air, She flew with Iris to the sphere of Jove. What fearful thoughts arise upon this show! What desert grove is this! How thus disguis'd? Where is Orgalio?

_Org._ Here, my lord.

_Orl._ Sirrah, how came I thus disguis'd, Like mad Orestes, quaintly thus attir'd?

_Org._ Like mad Orestes! nay, my lord, you may boldly justify the comparison, for Orestes was never so mad in his life as you were.

_Orl._ What, was I mad? what Fury hath enchanted me?

_Mel._ A Fury, sure, worse than Megæra was, That reft her son from trusty Pylades.

_Orl._ Why what art thou, some sibyl, or some goddess? freely speak.

_Mel._ Time not affords to tell each circumstance: But thrice hath Cynthia chang'd her hue, Since thou, infected with a lunacy, Hast gadded up and down these lawnds and groves, Performing strange and ruthful stratagems, All for the love of fair Angelica, Whom thou with Medor didst suppose play'd false. But Sacripant had graven these roundelays, To sting thee with infecting jealousy: The swain that told thee of their oft converse, Was servant unto County Sacripant: And trust me, Orlando, Angelica, Though true to thee, is banish'd from the court And Sacripant this day bids battle to Marsilius. The armies ready are to give assail; And on a hill that overpeers them both Stand all the worthy matchless peers of France, Who are in quest to seek Orlando out. Muse not at this, for I have told thee true: I am she that curèd thy disease. Here, take these weapons, given thee by the fates, And hie thee, county, to the battle straight.

_Orl._ Thanks, sacred goddess, for thy helping hand, Thither will I hie to be reveng'd. [_Exeunt._

ACT THE FIFTH