LXXXI Meseems that I have many threads to clear In the great web I labour evermore; And therefore be ye not displeased to hear How, all dislodged, the squadrons of the Moor, Threatening the golden lines loud, appear In arms, the royal Agramant before: Who bids for a review his army post, Willing to know the numbers of his host. LXXXII For besides horse and foot, in the campaign Sore thinned, whose numbers were to be supplied, Had many captains, and those good, of Spain, Of Libya, and of Aethiopia, died; And thus the nations, and the various train, Wandered without a ruler or a guide. To give to each its head and order due, The ample camp is mustered in review. LXXXIII To fill the squadrons ravaged by the sword, In those fierce battles and those conflicts dread, This to his Spain, to his Africa that lord, Sent to recruit, where well their files they fed; And next distributed the paynim horde Under their proper captains, ranged and led. I, with your leave, till other strain, delay The order of the muster to display. CANTO 14 ARGUMENT Two squadrons lack of those which muster under King Agramant, by single Roland slain; Hence furious Mandricardo, full of wonder And envy, seeks the count by hill and plain: Next joys himself with Doralice; such plunder, Aided by heaven, his valiant arms obtain. Rinaldo comes, with the angel-guide before, To Paris, now assaulted by the Moor. I In many a fierce assault and conflict dread, 'Twixt Spain and Afric and their Gallic foe, Countless had been the slain, whose bodies fed The ravening eagle, wolf, and greedy crow; But though the Franks had worse in warfare sped, Forced all the champaigne country to forego, This had the paynims purchased at the cost Of more good princes and bold barons lost. II So bloody was the price of victory, Small ground was left them triumphs to prepare; And if, unconquered Duke Alphonso, we May modern things with ancient deeds compare, The battle, whose illustrious palm may be Well worthily assigned to you to wear, At whose remembrance sad Ravenna trembles, And aye shall weep her loss, this field resembles. III When the Calesians and the Picards yielding, And troops of Normandy and Aquitaine, You, with your valiant arms their squadrons shielding, Stormed the almost victorious flags of Spain; And those bold youths their trenchant weapons wielding, Through parted squadrons, followed in your train; Who on that day deserved you should accord, For honoured gifts, the gilded spur and sword. IV You, with such glorious hearts, who were not slow To follow, nor far off, the gorgeous oak Seized, and shook down the golden acorns so, And so the red and yellow truncheon broke, That we to you our festive laurels owe, And the fair lily, rescued from its stroke; Another wreath may round your temples bloom, In that Fabricius you preserved to Rome.