_Orl._ Boy, view these trees carvèd with true love-knots, The inscription "_Medor and Angelica_?"; And read these verses hung up of their loves: Now tell me, boy, what dost thou think?
_Org._ By my troth, my lord, I think Angelica is a woman.
_Org._ Therefore unconstant, mutable, having their loves hanging in their eyelids; that as they are got with a look, so they are lost again with a wink. But here's a shepherd; it may be he can tell us news.
_Orl._ What messenger hath Ate sent abroad With idle looks to listen my laments?-- Sirrah, who wrongèd happy nature so, To spoil these trees with this "_Angelica_?"-- Yet in her name, Orlando, they are blest.
_Shep._ I am a shepherd-swain, thou wandering knight, That watch my flocks, not one that follow love.
_Orl._ As follow love! why darest thou dispraise my heaven, Or once disgrace or prejudice her name? Is not Angelica the queen of love, Deck'd with the compound wreath of Adon's flowers? She is. Then speak, thou peasant, what is he That dares attempt to court my queen of love, Or I shall send thy soul to Charon's charge.
_Shep._ Brave knight, since fear of death enforceth still To greater minds submission and relent, Know that this Medor, whose unhappy name Is mixèd with the fair Angelica's, Is even that Medor that enjoys her love. Yon cave bears witness of their kind content; Yon meadows talk the actions of their joy; Our shepherds in their songs of solace sing, "Angelica doth none but Medor love."
_Orl._ Angelica doth none but Medor love! Shall Medor, then, possess Orlando's love? Dainty and gladsome beams of my delight; Delicious brows, why smile your heavens for those That, wounding you, prove poor Orlando's foes? Lend me your plaints, you sweet Arcadian nymphs, That wont to sing your new-departed loves; Thou weeping flood, leavé Orpheus' wail for me; And, Titan's nieces, gather all in one Those fluent springs of your lamenting tears, And let them stream along my faintful looks.
_Shep._ [_aside_]. Now is the fire, late smother'd in suspect, Kindled, and burns within his angry breast: Now have I done the will of Sacripant.
_Orl. Fœmineum servile genus, crudele, superbum:_ Discourteous women, nature's fairest ill, The woe of man, that first-created curse, Base female sex, sprung from black Ate's loins, Proud, disdainful, cruel, and unjust, Whose words are shaded with enchanting wiles, Worse than Medusa mateth all our minds; And in their hearts sits shameless treachery, Turning a truthless vile circumference. O, could my fury paint their furies forth! For hell's no hell, comparèd to their hearts, Too simple devils to conceal their arts; Born to be plagues unto the thoughts of men, Brought for eternal pestilence to the world.
