_Sac._ [_coming forward_]. Sirrah, thou that ruminatest to thyself a catalogue of privy conspiracies, what art thou? _Org._ God save your majesty! _Sac._ [_aside_]. My majesty!--Come hither, my well-nutrimented knave; whom takest me to be? _Org._ The mighty Mandricard of Mexico. _Sac._ [_aside_]. I hold these salutations as ominous; for saluting me by that which I am not, he presageth what I shall be: for so did the Lacedæmonians by Agathocles, who of a base potter wore the kingly diadem.--But why deemest thou me to be the mighty Mandricard of Mexico? _Org._ Marry, sir,-- _Sac._ Stay there: wert thou never in France? _Org._ Yes, if it please your majesty. _Sac._ So it seems, for there they salute their king by the name of Sir, Monsieur:--but forward. _Org._ Such sparks of peerless majesty From those looks flame, like lightning from the east, As either Mandricard, or else some greater prince,-- _Sac._ [_aside_]. Methinks these salutations make my thoughts To be heroical:--but say, to whom art thou sent? _Org._ To the County Sacripant. _Sac._ Why, I am he. _Org._ It pleaseth your majesty to jest. _Sac._ Whate'er I seem, I tell thee I am he. _Org._ Then may it please your honour, the Emperor Marsilius, together with his daughter Angelica and Orlando, entreateth your excellency to dine with them. _Sac._ Is Angelica there? _Org._ There, my good lord. _Sac._ Sirrah. _Man._ My lord? _Sac._ Villain, Angelica sends for me: see that thou entertain that happy messenger, and bring him in with thee. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II.--_Before the Walls of_ RODOMONT'S _Castle._ _Enter_ ORLANDO, _the_ DUKE OF AQUITAIN, _and the_ COUNTY ROSSILION, _with_ Soldiers. _Orl._ Princes of France, the sparkling light of fame, Whose glory's brighter than the burnish'd gates From whence Latona's lordly son doth march, When, mounted on his coach tinsell'd with flames, He triumphs in the beauty of the heavens; This is the place where Rodomont lies hid: Here lies he, like the thief of Thessaly, Which scuds abroad and searcheth for his prey, And, being gotten, straight he gallops home, As one that dares not break a spear in field. But trust me, princes, I have girt his fort, And I will sack it, or on this castle-wall I'll write my resolution with my blood:-- Therefore, drum, sound a parle. [_A parle is sounded, and_ a Soldier _comes upon the walls._ _Sol._ Who is't that troubleth our sleeps?