_Ang._ [_aside_]. Thanks, gentle fortune, that sends me such good hap, Rather to die by him I love so dear, Than live and see my lord thus lunatic.
_Org._ [_giving a sword_]. Here, my lord.
_Orl._ If thou be'st come of Lancelot's worthy line, welcome thou art. Kneel down, sir knight; rise up, sir knight; Here, take this sword, and hie thee to the fight. [_Exit_ ANGELICA _with the sword._
Now tell me, Orgalio, what dost thou think? will not this knight prove a valiant squire?
_Org._ He cannot choose, being of your making.
_Orl._ Villain, find her out, Or else the torments that Ixion feels, The rolling stone, the tubs of the Belides--[158] Villain, wilt thou find her out?
_Org._ Alas, my lord, I know not where she is.
_Orl._ Run to Charlemagne, spare for no cost; Tell him, Orlando sent for Angelica.
_Org._ Faith, I'll fetch you such an Angelica as you never saw before. [_Exit._
_Orl._ As though that Sagittarius in his pride Could take brave Leda from stout Jupiter! And yet, forsooth, Medor, base Medor durst Attempt to reave Orlando of his love. Sirrah, you that are the messenger of Jove, You that can sweep it through the milk-white path That leads unto the senate-house of Mars, Fetch me my shield temper'd of purest steel, My helm forg'd by the Cyclops for Anchises' son And see if I dare combat for Angelica.
_Re-enter_ ORGALIO _with_ TOM[159] _dressed like_ ANGELICA.
_Org._ Come away, and take heed you laugh not.
_Tom._ No, I warrant you; but I think I had best go back and shave my beard.
_Tom._ Well, you will give me the half-crown ye promised me?
_Tom._ Sirrah, didst not see me serve the fellow a fine trick, when we came over the market-place?
_Tom._ Why, he comes to me and said, "Gentlewoman, wilt please you take a pint or a quart?" "No gentlewoman," said I, "but your friend and Dority."
_Org._ Excellent!--Come, see where my lord is.--My lord, here is Angelica.
_Orl._ Mass, thou say'st true, 'tis she indeed.--How fares the fair Angelica?
_Orl._ Why, art thou not that same Angelica, With brows as bright as fair Erythea That darks Canopus[160] with her silver hue?
_Orl._ Are not these the beauteous cheeks Wherein the lily and the native rose Sit equal-suited with a blushing red?
_Tom._ He makes a garden-plot in my face.