_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?
_Orl._ Is not her face silver'd like that milk-white shape That Jove came dancing in to Semele?
_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._
_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._ At which side doth he use to give his reward?
_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._