_Orl._ Why, sluggard, seest thou not Lycaon's son, The hardy plough-swain unto mighty Jove, Hath trac'd his silver furrows in the heavens, And, turning home his over-watchèd team, Gives leave unto Apollo's chariot? I tell thee, sluggard, sleep is far unfit For such as still have hammering in their heads, But only hope of honour and revenge: These call'd me forth to rouse thy master up. Tell him from me, false coward as he is, That Orlando, the County Palatine, Is come this morning, with a band of French, To play him hunt's-up with a point of war; I'll be his minstrel with my drum and fife; Bid him come forth, and dance it if he dare, Let fortune throw her favours where she list. _Sol._ Frenchman, between half-sleeping and awake, Although the misty veil strain'd over Cynthia Hinders my sight from noting all thy crew, Yet, for I know thee and thy straggling grooms Can in conceit build castles in the sky, But in your actions like the stammering Greek Which breathes his courage bootless in the air, I wish thee well, Orlando, get thee gone, Say that a sentinel did suffer thee; For if the round or court-of-guard should hear Thou or thy men were braying at the walls, Charles' wealth, the wealth of all his western mines, Found in the mountains of Transalpine France, Might not pay ransom to the king for thee. _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._ SCENE III.--_A Battle-field._ _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._ ACT THE SECOND SCENE I.--_Near the Castle of_ MARSILIUS. _Enter_ MEDOR _and_ ANGELICA. _Ang._ I marvel, Medor, what my father means To enter league with County Sacripant?