ACT THE THIRD

O, my lord of Aquitain, the Count Orlando is run mad, and taking of a shepherd by the heels, rends him as one would tear a lark! See where he comes, with a leg on his neck.

Re-enterOrlandowith a leg.

Orl.Villain, provide me straight a lion's skin,Thou see'st I now am mighty Hercules;Look where's my massy club upon my neck.I must to hell to fight with Cerberus,And find out Medor there or else I die.[153]You that are the rest, get you quickly away;Provide ye horses all of burnish'd gold,Saddles of cork, because I'll have them light;For Charlemagne the great is up in arms,And Arthur with a crew of Britons comesTo seek for Medor and Angelica.[So he beateth them all in before him, exceptOrgalio.

EnterMarsilius.

Org.Ah, my lord, Orlando—Mars.Orlando! what of Orlando?Org.He, my lord, runs madding through the woods,Like mad Orestes in his greatest rage.Step but aside into the bordering grove,There shall you see engraven on every treeThe lawless love of Medor and Angelica.O, see, my lord, not any shrub but bearsThe cursèd stamp that wrought the county's rage.If thou be'st mighty King Marsilius,For whom the county would adventure life,Revenge it on the false Angelica.Mars.Trust me, Orgalio, Theseus in his rageDid never more revenge his wrong'd HippolytusThan I will on the false Angelica.Go to my court, and drag me Medor forth;Tear from his breast the daring villain's heart.Next take that base and damn'd adulteress,—I scorn to title her with daughter's name,—Put her in rags, and, like some shepherdess,Exile her from my kingdom presently.Delay not, good Orgalio, see it done.[ExitOrgalio.

Enter aSoldier,withMandricarddisguised.

How now, my friend! what fellow hast thou there?Sol.He says, my lord, that he is servant unto Mandricard.Mars.To Mandricard!It fits me not who sway the diadem,And rule the wealthy realms of Barbary,To stain my thoughts with any cowardice.—Thy master brav'd me to my teeth,He back'd the Prince of Cuba for my foe;For which nor he nor his shall 'scape my hands.No, soldier, think me resolute as he.Mand.It grieves me much that princes disagree,Sith black repentance followeth afterward:But leaving that, pardon me, gracious lord.Mars.For thou entreat'st, and newly art arriv'd,And yet thy sword is not imbru'd in blood;Upon conditions, I will pardon thee,—That thou shalt never tell thy master, Mandricard,Nor any fellow-soldier of the camp,That King Marsilius licens'd thee depart:He shall not think I am so much his friend,That he or one of his shall 'scape my hand.MandI swear, my lord, and vow to keep my word.Mars.Then take my banderol[154]of red;Mine, and none but mine, shall honour thee,And safe conduct thee to Port Carthagene.Mand.But say, my lord, if Mandricard were here,What favour should he find, or life or death?Mars.I tell thee, friend, it fits not for a kingTo prize his wrath before his courtesy.Were Mandricard, the King of Mexico,In prison here, and crav'd but liberty,So little hate hangs in Marsilius' breast,As one entreaty should quite raze it out.But this concerns not thee, therefore, farewell.Mand.Thanks, and good fortune fall to such a king,As covets to be counted courteous.[ExitMarsilius.Blush, Mandricard; the honour of thy foe disgraceth thee;Thou wrongest him that wisheth thee but well;Thou bringest store of men from MexicoTo battle him that scorns to injure thee,Pawning his colours for thy warrantise.Back to thy ships, and hie thee to thy home;Budge not a foot to aid Prince Rodomont;But friendly gratulate these favours found,And meditate on naught but to be friends.[Exeunt.

EnterOrlandoattired like a madman.

Orl.Woods, trees, leaves; leaves, trees, woods;tria sequuntur tria.—Ho, Minerva!salve, good-morrow; how do you to-day? Tell me, sweet goddess, will Jove send Mercury to Calypso, to let me go? will he? why, then, he's a gentleman, every hair o' the head on him.—But, ho, Orgalio! where art thou, boy?

EnterOrgalio.

Org.Here, my lord: did you call me?

Orl.No, nor name thee.

Org.Then God be with you. [Proffers to go in.

Orl.Nay, prithee, good Orgalio, stay:Canst thou not tell me what to say?

Org.No, by my troth.

Orl.O, this it is; Angelica is dead.

Org.Why, then, she shall be buried.

Orl.But my Angelica is dead.

Org.Why, it may be so.

Orl.But she's dead and buried.

Org.Ay, I think so.

Orl.Nothing but "I think so," and "It may be so!" [Beats him.

Org.What do ye mean, my lord?

Orl.Why, shall I tell you that my love is dead, and can ye not weep for her?

Org.Yes, yes, my lord, I will.

Orl.Well, do so, then. Orgalio.

Org.My lord?

Orl.Angelica is dead. [Orgaliocries.] Ah, poor slave! so, cry no more now.

Org.Nay, I have quickly done.

Orl.Orgalio.

Org.My lord?

Orl.Medor's Angelica is dead. [Orgaliocries, andOrlandobeats him again.

Org.Why do ye beat me, my lord?

Orl.Why, slave, wilt thou weep for Medor's Angelica? thou must laugh for her.

Org.Laugh! yes, I'll laugh all day, an you will.

Orl.Orgalio.

Org.My lord?

Orl.Medor's Angelica is dead.

Org.Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Orl.So, 'tis well now.

Org.Nay, this is easier than the other was.

Orl.Now away! seek the herb moly;[155]for I must to hell, to seek for Medor and Angelica.

Org.I know not the herb moly, i'faith.

Orl.Come, I'll lead ye to it by the ears.

Org.'Tis here, my lord, 'tis here.

Orl.'Tis indeed. Now to Charon, bid him dress his boat, for he had never such a passenger.

Org.Shall I tell him your name?

Orl.No, then he will be afraid, and not be at home. [ExitOrgalio.

EnterTomandRalph.

Tom.Sirrah Ralph, an thou'lt go with me, I'll let thee see the bravest madman that ever thou sawest.

Ralph.Sirrah Tom, I believe 'twas he that was at our town a' Sunday: I'll tell thee what he did, sirrah. He came to our house, when all our folks were gone to church, and there was nobody at home but I, and I was turning of the spit, and he comes in, and bade me fetch him some drink. Now, I went and fetched him some; and ere I came again, by my troth, he ran away with the roast-meat, spit and all, and so we had nothing but porridge to dinner.

Tom.By my troth, that was brave: but, sirrah, he did so course the boys, last Sunday; and if ye call him madman, he'll run after you, and tickle your ribs so with his flap of leather that he hath, as it passeth.[156][They spyOrlando.

Ralph.O, Tom, look where he is! call him madman.

Tom.Madman, madman.

Ralph.Madman, madman.

Orl.What say'st thou, villain? [Beats them.So, now you shall be both my soldiers.

Tom.Your soldiers! we shall have a mad captain, then.

Orl.You must fight against Medor.

Ralph.Yes, let me alone with him for a bloody nose.

Orl.Come, then, and I will give you weapons straight. [Exeunt.

EnterAngelica,like a poor woman.

Ang.Thus causeless banish'd from thy native home,Here sit, Angelica, and rest a while,For to bewail the fortunes of thy love.

EnterRodomontandBrandimart,withSoldiers.

Rod.This way she went, and far she cannot be.

Brand.See where she is, my lord: speak as if you knew her not.

Rod.Fair shepherdess, for so thy sitting seems,Or nymph, for less thy beauty cannot be,What, feed you sheep upon these downs?Ang.Daughter I am unto a bordering swain,That tend my flocks within these shady groves.Rod.Fond girl, thou liest; thou art Angelica.Brand.Ay, thou art she that wrong'd the Palatine.Ang.For I am known, albeit I am disguis'd,Yet dare I turn the lie into thy throat,Sith thou report'st I wrong'd the Palatine.

Brand.Nay, then, thou shalt be used according to thy deserts.—Come, bring her to our tents.

Rod.But stay, what drum is this?

EnterOrlandowith a drum;Orgalio; Tom, Ralph,and others asSoldiers,with spits and dripping-pans.

Brand.Now see, Angelica, the fruits of all your love.

Orl.Soldiers, this is the city of great Babylon,Where proud Darius was rebated from:Play but the men, and I will lay my head,We'll sack and raze it ere the sun be set.

Tom.Yea, and scratch it too.—March fair, fellow frying-pan.

Orl.Orgalio, knowest thou the cause of my laughter?

Org.No, by my troth, nor no wise man else.

Orl.Why, sirrah, to think that if the enemy were fled ere we come, we'll not leave one of our own soldiers alive, for we two will kill them with our fists.

Ralph.Foh, come, let's go home again: he'll setprobatum estupon my head-piece anon.

Orl.No, no, thou shalt not be hurt,—nor thee.Back, soldiers; look where the enemy is.

Tom.Captain, they have a woman amongst them.

Orl.And what of that?

Tom.Why, strike you down the men, and then let me alone to thrust in the woman.

Orl.No, I am challengèd the single fight.—Sirrah, is't you challenge me the combat?Brand.Frantic companion, lunatic and wood,[157]Get thee hence, or else I vow by heaven,Thy madness shall not privilege thy life.Orl.I tell thee, villain, Medor wrong'd me so,Sith thou art come his champion to the field,I'll learn thee know I am the Palatine.

Alarum: they fight;OrlandokillsBrandimart;and all the rest fly, exceptAngelicaandOrgalio.

Org.Look, my lord, here's one killed.

Orl.Who killed him?

Org.You, my lord, I think.

Orl.I! no, no, I see who killed him.[Goes toAngelica,and knows her not.Come hither, gentle sir, whose prowess hath performed such an act: think not the courteous Palatine will hinder that thine honour hath achieved.—Orgalio, fetch me a sword, that presently this squire may be dubbed a knight.

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.[ExitAngelicawith 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.But where's Angelica now?

Org.Faith, I cannot tell.

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 prideCould take brave Leda from stout Jupiter!And yet, forsooth, Medor, base Medor durstAttempt to reave Orlando of his love.Sirrah, you that are the messenger of Jove,You that can sweep it through the milk-white pathThat 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' sonAnd see if I dare combat for Angelica.

Re-enterOrgaliowithTom[159]dressed likeAngelica.

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.

Org.Tush, that will not be seen.

Tom.Well, you will give me the half-crown ye promised me?

Org.Doubt not of that, man.

Tom.Sirrah, didst not see me serve the fellow a fine trick, when we came over the market-place?

Org.Why, how was that?

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?

Tom.Well, I thank you heartily.

Orl.Why, art thou not that same Angelica,With brows as bright as fair ErytheaThat darks Canopus[160]with her silver hue?Tom.Yes, forsooth.Orl.Are not these the beauteous cheeksWherein the lily and the native roseSit equal-suited with a blushing red?Tom.He makes a garden-plot in my face.Orl.Are not, my dear, those [the] radiant eyes,Whereout proud Phœbus flasheth out his beams?Tom.Yes, yes, with squibs and crackers bravely.Orl.You are Angelica?Tom.Yes, marry, am I.Orl.Where's your sweetheart Medor?Tom.Orgalio, give me eighteen-pence, and let me go.Orl.Speak, strumpet, speak.Tom.Marry, sir, he is drinking a pint or a quart.Orl.Why, strumpet, worse than Mars his trothless love,Falser than faithless Cressida! strumpet, thou shalt not 'scape.[Beats him.

Tom.Come, come, you do not use me like a gentlewoman: an if I be not for you, I am for another.

Orl.Are you? that will I try. [Beats him out. Exeunt.

Enter theTwelve Peers of France,with drum and trumpets.

Ogier.Brave peers of France, sith we have pass'd the bounds,Whereby the wrangling billows seek for straitsTo war with Tellus, and her fruitful mines;Sith we have furrow'd through those wandering tidesOf Tyrrhene seas, and made our galleys danceUpon the Hyperborean billows' crests,That brave with streams the watery occident;And found the rich and wealthy Indian clime,Sought-to by greedy minds for hurtful gold;Now let us seek to venge the lamp of FranceThat lately was eclipsèd in Angelica;Now let us seek Orlando forth, our peer,Though from his former wits lately estrang'd,Yet famous in our favours as before;And, sith by chance we all encounter'd be,Let's seek revenge on her that wrought his wrong.Namus.But being thus arriv'd in place unknown,Who shall direct our course unto the courtWhere brave Marsilius keeps his royal state?Ogier.Lo, here, two Indian palmers hard at hand,Who can perhaps resolve our hidden doubts.

EnterMarsiliusandMandricardlike Palmers.

Palmers, God speed.Mars.Lordings, we greet you well.Ogier.Where lies Marsilius' court, friend, canst thou tell?Mars.His court's his camp; the prince is now in arms.Turpin.In arms! What's he that dares annoy so great a king?Mand.Such as both love and fury do confound:Fierce Sacripant, incens'd with strange desires,Wars on Marsilius, and, Rodomont being dead,Hath levied all his men, and traitor-likeAssails his lord and loving sovereign:And Mandricard, who late hath been in armsTo prosecute revenge against Marsilius,Is now through favours past become his friend.Thus stands the state of matchless India.Ogier.Palmer, I like thy brave and brief discourse;And, couldst thou bring us to the prince's camp,We would acknowledge friendship at thy hands.Mars.Ye stranger lords, why seek ye out Marsilius?Ogier.In hope that he, whose empire is so large,Will make both mind and monarchy agree.Mars.Whence are you, lords, and what request you here?Namus.A question over-haughty for thy weed,Fit for the king himself for to propound.Mand.O, sir, know that under simple weedsThe gods have mask'd: then deem not with disdainTo answer to this palmer's question,Whose coat includes perhaps as great as yours.Ogier.Haughty their words, their persons full of state;Though habit be but mean, their minds excel.—Well, palmers, know that princes are in India arriv'd,Yea, even those western princely peers of FranceThat through the world adventures undertake,To find Orlando late incens'd with rage.Then, palmers, sith you know our styles and state,Advise us where your king Marsilius is.Mars.Lordings of France, here is Marsilius,That bids you welcome into India,And will in person bring you to his camp.Ogier.Marsilius! and thus disguis'd!Mars.Even Marsilius, and thus disguis'd.But what request these princes at my hand?Turpin.We sue for law and justice at thy hand:We seek Angelica thy daughter out;That wanton maid, that hath eclips'd the joyOf royal France, and made Orlando mad.Mars.My daughter, lords! why, she is exil'd;And her griev'd father is content to loseThe pleasance of his age, to countenance law.Oliver.Not only exile shall await Angelica,But death and bitter death shall follow her.Then yield us right, Marsilius, or our swordsShall make thee fear to wrong the peers of France.Mars.Words cannot daunt me, princes, be assur'd;But law and justice shall o'er-rule in this,And I will bury father's name and love.The hapless maid, banish'd from out my land,Wanders about in woods and ways unknown:Her, if ye find, with fury persecute;I now disdain the name to be her father.Lords of France, what would you more of me?Ogier.Marsilius, we commend thy princely mind,And will report thy justice through the world.—Come, peers of France, let's seek Angelica,Left for a spoil to our revenging thoughts. [Exeunt.

EnterOrlandolike a poet, andOrgalio.

Orl.Orgalio, is not my love like those purple-colour'd swansThat gallop by the coach of Cynthia?Org.Yes, marry, is she, my lord.Orl.Is not her face silver'd like that milk-white shapeThat Jove came dancing in to Semele?Org.It is, my lord.Orl.Then go thy ways, and climb up to the clouds,And tell Apollo that Orlando sitsMaking of verses for Angelica.And if he do deny to send me downThe 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.

Enter aFiddler.

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.Why, he is mad still, is he not?

Org.No, no: come, play.

Fid.At which side doth he use to give his reward?

Org.Why, of any side.

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. [TheFiddlerplays and sings any odd fey, andOrlandowakes.

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!—[toOrgalio]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.

Fid.O Lord, sir, will you answer this? [Exit.

EnterMelissawith a glass of wine.

Orl.Orgalio, who is this?

Org.Faith, my lord, some old witch, I think.

Mel.O, that my lord would but conceit[162]my tale!Then would I speak and hope to find redress.

Orl.Fair Polixena, the pride of IlionFear not Achilles' over-madding boy;Pyrrhus shall not, etc.—[163]Souns, Orgalio, why sufferest thou this old trot to come so nigh me?Org.Come, come, stand by, your breath stinks.Orl.What! be all the Trojans fled?Then give me some drink.

Mel.Here, Palatine, drink; and ever be thou better for this draught.

Orl.What's here? The paltry bottle that Darius quaff'd?[He drinks, and she charms him with her wand, and he lies down to sleep.Else would I set my mouth to Tigris' streams,And drink up overflowing Euphrates.My eyes are heavy, and I needs must sleep.

[Melissastrikes with her wand, and theSatyrsenter with music; and play round about him; which done, they stay; he awakes and speaks.

What shows are these, that fill mine eyesWith view of such regard as heaven admiresTo see my slumbering dreams!Skies are fulfill'd with lamps of lasting joy,That boast the pride of haught Latona's son;He lighteneth all the candles of the night.Mnemosyne hath kiss'd the kingly Jove,And entertain'd a feast within my brains,Making her daughters'[164]solace on my brow.Methinks, I feel how Cynthia tunes conceitsOf sad repeat, and melloweth those desiresWhich frenzy scarce had ripen'd in my head.Ate, I'll kiss thy restless cheek a while,And suffer fruitless passion bide control.[Lies down again.Mel. O vos Silvani, Satyri, Faunique, deæque,Nymphæ, Hamadryades, Dryades, Parcæque potentes!O vos qui colitis lacusque locosque profundos,Infernasque domus et nigra palatia Ditis!Tuque Demogorgon, qui noctis fata gubernas,Qui regis infernum solium, cælumque, solumque!Exaudite preces, filiasque auferte micantes;In caput Orlandi celestes spargite lymphas,Spargite, quis misere revocetur rapta per umbrasOrlandi infelix anima.[Then let the music play before him, and so go forth.Orl.What sights, what shows, what fearful shapes are these?More dreadful than appear'd to Hecuba,When fall of Troy was figur'd in her sleep!Juno, methought, sent down from heaven by Jove,Came swiftly sweeping through the gloomy air;And calling Iris, sent her straight abroadTo summon Fauns, the Satyrs, and the Nymphs,The Dryads, and all the demigods,To secret council; [and, their] parle past,[165]She gave them vials full of heavenly dew.With that, mounted upon her parti-coloured coach,Being drawn with peacocks proudly through the air,She flew with Iris to the sphere of Jove.What fearful thoughts arise upon this show!What desert grove is this! How thus disguis'd?Where is Orgalio?Org.Here, my lord.Orl.Sirrah, how came I thus disguis'd,Like mad Orestes, quaintly thus attir'd?

Org.Like mad Orestes! nay, my lord, you may boldly justify the comparison, for Orestes was never so mad in his life as you were.

Orl.What, was I mad? what Fury hath enchanted me?

Mel.A Fury, sure, worse than Megæra was,That reft her son from trusty Pylades.

Orl.Why what art thou, some sibyl, or some goddess? freely speak.

Mel.Time not affords to tell each circumstance:But thrice hath Cynthia chang'd her hue,Since thou, infected with a lunacy,Hast gadded up and down these lawnds and groves,Performing strange and ruthful stratagems,All for the love of fair Angelica,Whom thou with Medor didst suppose play'd false.But Sacripant had graven these roundelays,To sting thee with infecting jealousy:The swain that told thee of their oft converse,Was servant unto County Sacripant:And trust me, Orlando, Angelica,Though true to thee, is banish'd from the courtAnd Sacripant this day bids battle to Marsilius.The armies ready are to give assail;And on a hill that overpeers them bothStand all the worthy matchless peers of France,Who are in quest to seek Orlando out.Muse not at this, for I have told thee true:I am she that curèd thy disease.Here, take these weapons, given thee by the fates,And hie thee, county, to the battle straight.Orl.Thanks, sacred goddess, for thy helping hand,Thither will I hie to be reveng'd.[Exeunt.

Alarums: enterSacripantcrowned, and pursuingMarsiliusandMandricard.

Sac.Viceroys, you are dead;For Sacripant, already crown'd a king,Heaves up his sword to have your diadems.Mars.Traitor, not dead, nor any whit dismay'd;For dear we prize the smallest drop of blood.

EnterOrlandowith a scarf before his face.

Orl.Stay, princes, 'base not yourselves to combat such a dog.Mount on your coursers, follow those that fly,And let your conquering swords be tainted in their bloods:Pass ye for him; he shall be combated.[ExeuntMarsiliusandMandricard.Sac.Why, what art thou that brav'st me thus?Orl.I am, thou see'st, a mercenary soldier,Homely attir'd, but of so haughty thoughts,As naught can serve to quench th' aspiring flames,That burn as do the fires of Sicily,Unless I win that princely diadem,That seems so ill upon thy coward's head.Sac.Coward! To arms, sir boy! I will not brook these braves,If Mars himself, even from his fiery throneCame arm'd with all his furnitures of war.[They fight, andSacripantfalls.O villain! thou hast slain a prince.Orl.Then mayst thou think that Mars himself came down,To vail thy plumes and heave thee from thy pomp.Proud that thou art, I reck not of thy gree,But I will have the conquest of my sword,Which is the glory of thy diadem.Sac.These words bewray thou art no base-born Moor,But by descent sprung from some royal line:Then freely tell me, what's thy name?Orl.Nay, first let me know thine.Sac.Then know that thou hast slain Prince Sacripant.Orl.Sacripant! Then let me at thy dying day entreat,By that same sphere wherein thy soul shall rest,If Jove deny not passage to thy ghost,Thou tell me whether thou wrong'dst Angelica or no?Sac.O, that's the sting that pricks my conscience!O, that's the hell my thoughts abhor to think!I tell thee, knight, for thou dost seem no less,That I engrav'd the roundelays on the trees,And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love,Intending so to breed debateBetween Orlando and Angelica:O, thus I wrong'd Orlando and Angelica!Now tell me, what shall I call thy name?Orl.Then dead is the fatal author of my ill.Base villain, vassal, unworthy of a crown,Know that the man that struck the fatal strokeIs Orlando, the County Palatine,Whom fortune sent to quittance all my wrongs.Thou foil'd and slain, it now behoves me straightTo hie me fast to massacre thy men:And so, farewell, thou devil in shape of man. [Exit.Sac.Hath Demogorgon, ruler of the fates,Set such a baleful period on my lifeAs none might end the days of SacripantBut mighty Orlando, rival of my love?Now hold the fatal murderers of menThe sharpen'd knife ready to cut my thread,Ending the scene of all my tragedy:This day, this hour, this minute ends the daysOf him that liv'd worthy old Nestor's age.Phœbus, put on thy sable-suited wreath,Clad all thy spheres in dark and mourning weeds:Parch'd be the earth, to drink up every spring:Let corn and trees be blasted from above;Heaven turn to brass, and earth to wedge of steel;The world to cinders. Mars, come thundering down,And never sheath thy swift-revenging sword,Till, like the deluge in Deucalion's days,The highest mountains swim in streams of blood.Heaven, earth, men, beasts, and every living thing,Consume and end with County Sacripant! [Dies.

EnterMarsilius, Mandricard,and theTwelve PeerswithAngelica.

Mars.Fought is the field, and Sacripant is slain,With such a massacre of all his men,As Mars, descending in his purple robe,Vows with Bellona in whole heaps of bloodTo banquet all the demigods of war.Mand.See, where he lies slaughter'd without the camp,And by a simple swain, a mercenary,Who bravely took the combat to himself:Might I but know the man that did the deed,I would, my lord, etérnize him with fame.Ogier.Leaving the factious county to his death,Command, my lord, his body be convey'd[166]Unto some place, as likes your highness best.See, Marsilius, posting through Africa,We have found this straggling girl, Angelica,Who, for she wrong'd her love Orlando,Chiefest of the western peers, conversingWith so mean a man as Medor was,We will have her punish'd by the laws of France,To end her burning lust in flames of fire.Mars.Beshrew you, lordings, but you do your worst;Fire, famine, and as cruel deathAs fell to Nero's mother in his rage.Angelica.Father, if I may dare to call thee so,And lords of France, come from the western seas,In quest to find mighty Orlando out,Yet, ere I die, let me have leave to say,Angelica held ever in her thoughtsMost dear the love of County Palatine.What wretch hath wrong'd us with suspect of lustI know not, I, nor can accuse the man;But, by the heavens, whereto my soul shall fly,Angelica did never wrong Orlando.I speak not this as one that cares to live,For why my thoughts are fully malcontent;And I conjure you by your chivalry,You quit Orlando's wrong upon Angelica.

EnterOrlando,with a scarf before his face.

Oliver.Strumpet, fear not, for, by fair Maia's son,This day thy soul shall vanish up in fire,As Semele, when Juno wil'd the trullTo entertain the glory of her love.Orl.Frenchman, for so thy quaint array imports,Be thou a peer, or be thou Charlemagne,Or hadst thou Hector's or Achilles' heart,Or never-daunted thoughts of Hercules,That did in courage far surpass them all,I tell thee, sir, thou liest in thy throat,—The greatest brave Transalpine France can brook,—In saying that sacred AngelicaDid offer wrong unto the Palatine.I am a common mercenary soldier;Yet, for I see my princess is abus'dBy new-come stragglers from a foreign coast,I dare the proudest of these western lordsTo crack a blade in trial of her right.Mand.Why, foolish-hardy, daring, simple groom,Follower of fond-conceited[167]Phaëton,Know'st thou to whom thou speak'st?Mars.Brave soldier, for so much thy courage says,These men are princes, dipt within the bloodOf kings most royal, seated in the west,Unfit to accept a challenge at your hand:Yet thanks that thou wouldst in thy lord's defenceFight for my daughter; but her guilt is known.Ang.Ay, rest thee, soldier, Angelica is false,—False, for she hath no trial of her right:Soldier, let me die for the 'miss[168]of all.Wert thou as stout as was proud Theseus,In vain thy blade should offer my defence;For why these be the champions of the world,Twelve Peers of France that never yet were foil'd.Orl.How, madam, the Twelve Peers of France!Why, let them be twelve devils of hell,What I have said, I'll pawn my sword,To seal it on the shield of him that dares,Malgrado[169]of his honour, combat me.Oliver.Marry, sir, that dare I.Orl.Y'ar'[170]a welcome man, sir.Turpin.Chastise the groom, Oliver, and learn him knowWe are not like the boys of Africa.Orl.Hear you, sir? You that so peremptorily bade him fight,Prepare your weapons, for your turn is next:'Tis not one champion can discourage me.Come, are ye ready?[He fights first with one, and then with the other, and overcomes them both.So stand aside:—and, madam, if my fortune last it out,I'll guard your person with Twelve Peers of France.Ogier.[aside]. O Ogier, how canst thou stand, and see a slaveDisgrace the house of France?—Sirrah, prepare you;For angry Nemesis sits on my sword to be reveng'd.[They fight a good while, and then breathe.Ogier.Howe'er disguis'd in base or Indian shape,Ogier can well discern thee by thy blows;For either thou art Orlando or the devil.Orl.[taking off his scarf].Then, to assure you that I am no devil,Here's your friend and companion, Orlando.Ogier.And none can be more glad than Ogier is,That he hath found his cousin in his sense.Oliver.Whenas I felt his blows upon my shield,My teeth did chatter, and my thoughts conceiv'd,Who might this be, if not the Palatine.Turpin.So had I said, but that report did tellMy lord was troubled with a lunacy.Orl.So was I, lordings; but give me leave awhile,Humbly as Mars did to his paramour,So to submit to fair Angelica.—Pardon thy lord, fair saint Angelica,Whose love, stealing by steps into extremes,Grew by suspect to causeless lunacy.Ang.O no, my lord, but pardon my amiss;For had not Orlando lov'd Angelica,Ne'er had my lord fall'n into these extremes,Which we will parley private to ourselves.Ne'er was the Queen of Cyprus half so gladAs is Angelica to see her lord,Her dear Orlando, settled in his sense.Orl.Thanks, my sweet love.—But why stand the Prince of Africa,And Mandricard the King of Mexico,So deep in dumps, when all rejoice beside?First know, my lord, I slaughter'd Sacripant;I am the man that did the slave to death;Who frankly there did make confession,That he engrav'd the roundelays on the trees,And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love,Intending by suspect to breed debateDeeply 'twixt me and fair Angelica:His hope had hap, but we had all the harm;And now revenge, leaping from out the seatOf him that may command stern Nemesis,Hath pour'd those treasons justly on his head.What saith my gracious lord to this?Mars.I stand amaz'd, deep over-drench'd with joy,To hear and see this unexpected end:So well I rest content.—Ye peers of France,Sith it is prov'd Angelica is clear,Her and my crown I freely will bestowUpon Orlando, the County Palatine.Orl.Thanks my good lord.—And now, my friends of France,Frolic, be merry; we will hasten home,So soon as King Marsilius will consentTo let his daughter wend with us to France.Meanwhile we'll richly rig up all our fleetMore brave[171]than was that gallant Grecian keelThat brought away the Colchian fleece of gold:Our sails of sendal[172]spread into the wind;Our ropes and tacklings all of finest silk,Fetch'd from the native looms of labouring worms,The pride of Barbary, and the glorious wealthThat is transported by the western bounds;Our stems cut out of gleaming ivory;Our planks and sides fram'd out of cypress-wood,That bears the name of Cyparissus' change,To burst the billows of the ocean-sea,Where Phœbus dips his amber tresses oft,And kisses Thetis in the day's decline;That Neptune proud shall call his Tritons forthTo cover all the ocean with a calm:So rich shall be the rubbish of our barks,Ta'en here for ballass to the ports of France,That Charles himself shall wonder at the sight.Thus, lordings, when our banquetings be done,And Orlando espousèd to Angelica,We'll furrow through the moving ocean,And cheerly frolic with great Charlemagne.[Exeunt omnes.

OfFriar Bacon and Friar Bungaythere are three quartos, dated 1594, 1630 and 1655. The first quarto was published by Edward White, and 14th May 1594, the play is entered by the publisher on theStationery Registers. The two exemplars of this quarto are in the British Museum and in Bridgewater House. In Henslowe'sDiary, Friar Baconheads the list of plays by my Lord Strange's men in an entry for 19th February 1592. At this time it was not a new play. Between this date and 6th May it was performed by Strange's men once every three weeks, and once a week between the following 10th January and 30th January. 1st April 1594, it was taken over by the original owners, the Queen's players, who were then acting with Sussex' players, and was performed 1st and 5th April at the Rose Theatre. Presumably it was sent to press by the Queen's men. At Christmas 1602 Middleton wrote a Prologue and Epilogue for a performance of the play by the Admiral's men at Court, for which he received five shillings. After this the play was probably kept in the possession of the Admiral's players, for the 1630 title-page indicates its performance by the Palsgrave's men. In no sense a plagiarism, the play is strictly a rival of Marlowe'sDr. Faustus, and it must have been performed within a year after Marlowe's play appeared in 1587. WithJames IV.it represents Greene's dramatic workmanship at its best. A few months after the appearance of the play it was parodied inFair Em, The Miller's Daughter of Manchester. Greene's play is based on a romance written at the end of the sixteenth century, and probably accessible to both Greene and Marlowe. The "wall of brass" is common to both plays, and comes in each case directly from the source-book, theFamous History of Friar Bacon. This popular old story, of which the earliest extant edition is dated 1630, is now accessible in Thoms'Early English Prose Romances, Vol. I. To his source-material Greene added, probably out of his own head, the character of Margaret and her touching love-story. For the historical portions of the play there is no warrant in actual events.

King Henry the Third.

Edward, Prince of Wales, his son.

Emperor of Germany.

King of Castile.

Duke of Saxony.

Lacy, Earl of Lincoln.

Warren, Earl of Sussex.

Ermsby, a Gentleman.

Ralph Simnell, the King's Fool.

Friar Bacon.

Miles, Friar Bacon's poor scholar.

Friar Bungay.

Jaques Vandermast.

Burden,Mason,Doctors of Oxford.

Clement,Lambert,Serlsby,Gentlemen.

Two Scholars, their sons.

Keeper.

Keeper's Friend.

Thomas,Richard,Clowns.

Constable.

A Post.

Lords, Clowns, etc.

Elinor, daughter to the King of Castile.

Margaret, the Keeper's daughter.

Joan, a country wench.

Hostess of the Bell at Henley.

A Devil.

Spirit in the shape ofHercules.

EnterPrince Edwardmalcontented, withLacy, Warren, Ermsby,andRalph Simnell.

Lacy.Why looks my lord like to a troubled sky,When heaven's bright shine is shadowed with a fog?Alate we ran the deer, and through the lawndsStripp'd[173]with our nags the lofty frolic bucksThat scudded 'fore the teasers[174]like the wind:Ne'er was the deer of merry FressingfieldSo lustily pull'd down by jolly mates,Nor shar'd the farmers such fat venison,So frankly dealt, this hundred years before;Nor have I seen my lord more frolic in the chase,And now chang'd to a melancholy dump.War.After the prince got to the keeper's lodge,And had been jocund in the house awhile,Tossing off ale and milk in country cans;Whether it was the country's sweet content,Or else the bonny damsel fill'd us drink,That seem'd so stately in her stammel[175]red,Or that a qualm did cross his stomach then,But straight he fell into his passions.Erms.Sirrah Ralph, what say you to your master,Shall he thus all amort[176]live malcontent?

Ralph.Hearest thou, Ned?—Nay, look if he will speak to me!

P. Edw.What say'st thou to me, fool?

Ralph.I prithee, tell me, Ned, art thou in love with the Keeper's daughter?

P. Edw.How if I be, what then?

Ralph.Why then, sirrah, I'll teach thee how to deceive love.

P. Edw.How, Ralph?

Ralph.Marry, Sirrah Ned, thou shalt put on my cap and my coat and my dagger, and I will put on thy clothes and thy sword; and so thou shalt be my fool.

P. Edw.And what of this?

Ralph.Why, so thou shalt beguile Love; for Love is such a proud scab, that he will never meddle with fools nor children. Is not Ralph's counsel good, Ned?

P. Edw.Tell me, Ned Lacy, didst thou mark the maid,How lovely in her country weeds she look'd?A bonnier wench all Suffolk cannot yield:—All Suffolk! nay, all England holds none such.

Ralph.Sirrah Will Ermsby, Ned is deceived.

Erms.Why, Ralph?

Ralph.He says all England hath no such, and I say, and I'll stand to it, there is one better in Warwickshire.

War.How provest thou that, Ralph?

Ralph.Why, is not the abbot a learned man, and hath read many books, and thinkest thou he hath not more learning than thou to choose a bonny wench? yes, I warrant thee, by his whole grammar.

Erms.A good reason, Ralph.

P. Edw.I tell thee, Lacy, that her sparkling eyesDo lighten forth sweet love's alluring fire;And in her tresses she doth fold the looksOf such as gaze upon her golden hair:Her bashful white, mix'd with the morning's red,Luna doth boast upon her lovely cheeks;Her front is beauty's table, where she paintsThe glories of her gorgeous excellence;Her teeth are shelves of precious margarites,[177]Richly enclos'd with ruddy coral cleeves.[178]Tush, Lacy, she is beauty's over-match,If thou survey'st her curious imagery.Lacy.I grant, my lord, the damsel is as fairAs simple Suffolk's homely towns can yield;But in the court be quainter[179]dames than she,Whose faces are enrich'd with honour's taint,Whose beauties stand upon the stage of fame,And vaunt their trophies in the courts of love.P. Edw.Ah, Ned, but hadst thou watch'd her as myself,And seen the secret beauties of the maid,Their courtly coyness were but foolery.Erms.Why, how watch'd you her, my lord?P. Edw.Whenas she swept like Venus through the house,—And in her shape fast folded up my thoughts,—Into the milk-house went I with the maid,And there amongst the cream-bowls she did shineAs Pallas 'mongst her princely huswifery:She turn'd her smock over her lily arms,And div'd them into milk to run her cheese;But whiter than the milk her crystal skin,Checkèd with lines of azure, made her blush,[180]That art or nature durst bring for compare.Ermsby, if thou hadst seen, as I did note it well,How beauty play'd the huswife, how this girl,Like Lucrece, laid her fingers to the work,Thou wouldst, with Tarquin, hazard Rome and allTo win the lovely maid of Fressingfield.

Ralph.Sirrah Ned, wouldst fain have her?

P. Edw.Ay, Ralph.

RalphWhy, Ned, I have laid the plot in my head; thou shalt have her already.

P. Edw.I'll give thee a new coat, an learn me that.

Ralph.Why, Sirrah Ned, we'll ride to Oxford to Friar Bacon: O, he is a brave scholar, sirrah; they say he is a brave necromancer, that he can make women of devils, and he can juggle cats into costermongers.

P. Edw.And how then, Ralph?

Ralph.Marry, Sirrah, thou shalt go to him: and because thy father Harry shall not miss thee, he shall turn me into thee; and I'll to the court, and I'll prince it out; and he shall make thee either a silken purse full of gold, or else a fine wrought smock.

P. Edw.But how shall I have the maid?

Ralph.Marry, sirrah, if thou be'st a silken purse full of gold, then on Sundays she'll hang thee by her side, and you must not say a word. Now, sir, when she comes into a great prease of people, for fear of the cutpurse, ona sudden she'll swap thee into her plackerd;[181]then, sirrah, being there, you may plead for yourself.

Erms.Excellent policy!

P. Edw.But how if I be a wrought smock?

Ralph.Then she'll put thee into her chest and lay thee into lavender, and upon some good day she'll put thee on; and at night when you go to bed, then being turned from a smock to a man, you may make up the match.

Lacy.Wonderfully wisely counselled, Ralph.

P. Edw.Ralph shall have a new coat.

Ralph.God thank you when I have it on my back, Ned.

P. Edw.Lacy, the fool hath laid a perfect plot;For why our country Margaret is so coy,And stands so much upon her honest points,That marriage or no market with the maid.Ermsby, it must be necromantic spellsAnd charms of art that must enchain her love,Or else shall Edward never win the girl.Therefore, my wags, we'll horse us in the morn,And post to Oxford to this jolly friar:Bacon shall by his magic do this deed.War.Content, my lord; and that's a speedy wayTo wean these headstrong puppies from the teat.P. Edw.I am unknown, not taken for the prince;They only deem us frolic courtiers,That revel thus among our liege's game:Therefore I have devis'd a policy.Lacy, thou know'st next Friday is Saint James',And then the country flocks to Harleston fair:Then will the Keeper's daughter frolic there,And over-shine the troop of all the maidsThat come to see and to be seen that day.Haunt thee disguis'd among the country-swains,Feign thou'rt a farmer's son, not far from thence,Espy her loves, and who she liketh best;Cote[182]him, and court her to control the clown;Say that the courtier 'tirèd all in green,That help'd her handsomely to run her cheese,And fill'd her father's lodge with venison,Commends him, and sends fairings to herself.Buy something worthy of her parentage,Not worth her beauty; for, Lacy, then the fairAffords no jewel fitting for the maid:And when thou talk'st of me, note if she blush:O, then she loves; but if her cheeks wax pale,Disdain it is. Lacy, send how she fares,And spare no time nor cost to win her loves.Lacy.I will, my lord, so execute this charge,As if that Lacy were in love with her.

P. Edw.Send letters speedily to Oxford of the news.

Ralph.And, Sirrah Lacy, buy me a thousand thousand million of fine bells.

Lacy.What wilt thou do with them, Ralph?

Ralph.Marry, every time that Ned sighs for the Keeper's daughter, I'll tie a bell about him: and so within three or four days I will send word to his father Harry, that his son, and my master Ned, is become Love's morris-dance.

P. Edw.Well, Lacy, look with care unto thy charge,And I will haste to Oxford to the friar,That he by art, and thou by secret giftsMayst make me lord of merry Fressingfield.Lacy.God send your honour your heart's desire.[Exeunt.

EnterFriar Bacon,andMileswith books under his arm; with themBurden, MasonandClement.

Bacon.Miles, where are you?

Miles. Hic sum, doctissime et reverendissime doctor.

Bacon. Attulisti nos libros meos de necromantia?

Miles. Ecce quam bonum et quam jucundum habitare libros in unum!

Bacon.Now, masters of our academic state,That rule in Oxford, viceroys in your place,Whose heads contain maps of the liberal arts,Spending your time in depth of learnèd skill,Why flock you thus to Bacon's secret cell,A friar newly stall'd in Brazen-nose?Say what's your mind, that I may make reply.Burd.Bacon, we hear, that long we have suspect,That thou art read in magic's mystery;In pyromancy, to divine by flames;To tell, by hydromantic, ebbs and tides;By aeromancy to discover doubts,To plain out questions, as Apollo did.

Bacon.Well, Master Burden, what of all this?

Miles.Marry, sir, he doth but fulfil, by rehearsing of these names, the fable of the Fox and the Grapes: that which is above us pertains nothing to us.

Burd.I tell thee, Bacon, Oxford makes report,Nay, England, and the court of Henry saysThou'rt making of a brazen head by art,Which shall unfold strange doubts and aphorisms,And read a lecture in philosophy;And, by the help of devils and ghastly fiends,Thou mean'st, ere many years or days be past,To compass England with a wall of brass.

Bacon.And what of this?

Miles.What of this, master! why he doth speak mystically; for he knows, if your skill fail to make a brazen head, yet Mother Waters' strong ale will fit his turn to make him have a copper nose.

Clem.Bacon, we come not grieving at thy skill,But joying that our académy yieldsA man suppos'd the wonder of the world;For if thy cunning work these miracles,England and Europe shall admire thy fame,And Oxford shall in characters of brass,And statues, such as were built up in Rome,Etérnize Friar Bacon for his art.Mason.Then, gentle friar, tell us thy intent.Bacon.Seeing you come as friends unto the friar,Resolve[183]you, doctors, Bacon can by booksMake storming Boreas thunder from his cave,And dim fair Luna to a dark eclipse.The great arch-ruler, potentate of hell,Trembles when Bacon bids him, or his fiends,Bow to the force of his pentageron.[184]What art can work, the frolic friar knows;And therefore will I turn my magic books,And strain out necromancy to the deep.I have contriv'd and fram'd a head of brass(I made Belcephon hammer out the stuff),And that by art shall read philosophy:And I will strengthen England by my skill,That if ten Cæsars liv'd and reign'd in Rome,With all the legions Europe doth contain,They should not touch a grass of English ground:The work that Ninus rear'd at Babylon,The brazen walls fram'd by Semiramis,Carv'd out like to the portal of the sun,Shall not be such as rings the English strandFrom Dover to the market-place of Rye.

Burd.Is this possible?

Miles.I'll bring ye two or three witnesses.

Burd.What be those?

Miles.Marry, sir, three or four as honest devils and good companions as any be in hell.

Mason.No doubt but magic may do much in this;For he that reads but mathematic rulesShall find conclusions that avail to workWonders that pass the common sense of men.Burd.But Bacon roves a bow beyond his reach,And tells of more than magic can perform;Thinking to get a fame by fooleries.Have I not pass'd as far in state of schools,And read of many secrets? yet to thinkThat heads of brass can utter any voice,Or more, to tell of deep philosophy,This is a fable Æsop had forgot.Bacon.Burden, thou wrong'st me in detracting thus;Bacon loves not to stuff himself with lies:But tell me 'fore these doctors, if thou dare,Of certain questions I shall move to thee.Burd.I will: ask what thou can.

Miles.Marry, sir, he'll straight be on your pick-pack, to know whether the feminine or the masculine gender be most worthy.

Bacon.Were you not yesterday Master Burden, at Henley upon the Thames?

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