And must she speak at last, rather than die? And must she plead, without another's aid? She must, she must: the vital moments fly She lives--she dies, a passion-wasted maid. At length she bursts all ties of modesty: Her tongue explains her eyes; the words are said And she asks pity, underneath that blow Which he, perhaps, that gave it did not know.
O County Orlando! O King Sacripant! That fame of yours, say, what avails it ye? That lofty honour, those great deeds ye vaunt,-- Say, what's their value with the lovely she Shew me--recall to memory (for I can't)-- Shew me, I beg, one single courtesy That ever she vouchsafed ye, far or near, For all you've done and have endured for her.
And you, if you could come to life again, O Agrican, how hard 'twould seem to you, Whose love was met by nothing but disdain, And vile repulses, shocking to go through! O Ferragus! O thousands, who, in vain, Did all that loving and great hearts could do, How would ye feel, to see, with all her charms, This thankless creature in a stripling's arms?
The young Medoro had the gathering Of the world's rose, the rose untouch'd before; For never, since that garden blush'd with spring, Had human being dared to touch the door. To sanction it--to consecrate the thing-- The priest was called to read the service o'er, (For without marriage what can come but strife?) And the bride-mother was the shepherd's wife.
All was perform'd, in short, that could be so In such a place, to make the nuptials good; Nor did the happy pair think fit to go, But spent the month and more within the wood. The lady to the stripling seemed to grow. His step her step, his eyes her eyes pursued; Nor did her love lose any of its zest, Though she was always hanging on his breast.
In doors and out of doors, by night, by day, She had the charmer by her side for ever; Morning and evening they would stroll away, Now by some field or little tufted river; They chose a cave in middle of the day, Perhaps not less agreeable or clever Than Dido and Æneas found to screen them, When they had secrets to discuss between them.
And all this while there was not a smooth tree, That stood by stream or fountain with glad breath, Nor stone less hard than stones are apt to be, But they would find a knife to carve it with; And in a thousand places you might see, And on the walls about you and beneath, ANGELICA AND MEDORO, tied in one, As many ways as lovers' knots can run.