CXIII Stiffed within, the impetuous sorrow stays, Which would too quickly issue; so to abide Water is seen, imprisoned in the vase, Whose neck is narrow and whose swell is wide; What time, when one turns up the inverted base, Towards the mouth, so hastes the hurrying tide, And in the streight encounters such a stop, It scarcely works a passage, drop by drop. CXIV He somewhat to himself returned, and thought How possibly the thing might be untrue: The some one (so he hoped, desired, and sought To think) his lady would with shame pursue; Or with such weight of jealously had wrought To whelm his reason, as should him undo; And that he, whosoe'er the thing had planned, Had counterfeited passing well her hand. CXV With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat, And manned some deal his spirits and awoke; Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro's seat, As on the sun's retreat his sister broke. Nor far the warrior had pursued his beat, Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke; Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied, And thitherward in quest of lodging hied. CXVI Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant: one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. This was the homestead where the young Medore Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. Orlando here, with other food unfed, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed. CXVII The more the wretched sufferer seeks for ease, He finds but so much more distress and pain; Who every where the loathed hand-writing sees, On wall, and door, and window: he would fain Question his host of this, but holds his peace, Because, in sooth, he dreads too clear, too plain To make the thing, and this would rather shrowd, That it may less offend him, with a cloud. CXVIII Little availed the count his self-deceit; For there was one who spake of it unsought; The sheperd-swain, who to allay the heat, With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought: The tale which he was wonted to repeat -- Of the two lovers -- to each listener taught, A history which many loved to hear, He now, without reserve, 'gan tell the peer. CXIX How at Angelica's persuasive prayer, He to his farm had carried young Medore, Grievously wounded with an arrow; where, In little space she healed the angry sore. But while she exercised this pious care, Love in her heart the lady wounded more, And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire, She burnt all over, restless with desire: CXX Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born, Who ruled in the east, nor of her heritage, Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn To be the consort of a poor foot-page. -- His story done, to them in proof was borne The gem, which, in reward for harbourage, To her extended in that kind abode, Angelica, at parting, had bestowed.