_Orl._ Brave sentinel, if nature hath enchas'd A sympathy of courage to thy tale, And, like the champion of Andromache, Thou, or thy master, dare come out the gates, Maugre the watch, the round, or court-of-guard, I will attend to abide the coward here. If not, but still the craven sleeps secure, Pitching his guard within a trench of stones, Tell him his walls shall serve him for no proof, But as the son of Saturn in his wrath Pash'd[147] all the mountains at Typhœus' head, And topsy-turvy turn'd the bottom up, So shall the castle of proud Rodomont.-- And so, brave lords of France, let's to the fight. [_Exeunt._
_Alarums:_ RODOMONT _and_ BRANDIMART _fly. Enter_ ORLANDO _with_ RODOMONT'S _coat._
_Orl._ The fox is scap'd, but here's his case: I miss'd him near; 'twas time for him to trudge. [_Enter the_ DUKE OF AQUITAIN. How now, my lord of Aquitain!
_Aq._ My lord, the court-of-guard is put unto the sword And all the watch that thought themselves so sure, So that not one within the castle breathes.
_Orl._ Come then, let's post amain to find out Rodomont, And then in triumph march unto Marsilius. [_Exeunt._
SCENE I.--_Near the Castle of_ MARSILIUS.
_Ang._ I marvel, Medor, what my father means To enter league with County Sacripant?
_Med._ Madam, the king your father's wise enough; He knows the county, like to Cassius, Sits sadly dumping, aiming Cæsar's death, Yet crying "Ave" to his majesty.[148] But, madam, mark awhile, and you shall see Your father shake him off from secrecy.
_Ang._ So much I guess; for when he will'd I should Give entertainment to the doting earl, His speech was ended with a frowning smile.
_Med._ Madam, see where he comes; I will be gone. [_Exit._
_Ang._ Well, that my lord so friendly is in league, As honour wills him, with Marsilius.
_Sac._ Angelica, shall I have a word or two with thee?
_Ang._ What pleaseth my lord for to command?
_Sac._ Then know, my love, I cannot paint my grief, Nor tell a tale of Venus and her son, Reporting such a catalogue of toys: It fits not Sacripant to be effeminate. Only give leave, my fair Angelica, To say, the county is in love with thee.
_Ang._ Pardon, my lord; my loves are over-past: So firmly is Orlando printed in my thoughts, As love hath left no place for any else.