_Med._ Madam, the king your father's wise enough; He knows the county, like to Cassius, Sits sadly dumping, aiming Cæsar's death, Yet crying "Ave" to his majesty.[148] But, madam, mark awhile, and you shall see Your father shake him off from secrecy. _Ang._ So much I guess; for when he will'd I should Give entertainment to the doting earl, His speech was ended with a frowning smile. _Med._ Madam, see where he comes; I will be gone. [_Exit._ _Enter_ SACRIPANT _and his_ Man. _Sac._ How fares my fair Angelica? _Ang._ Well, that my lord so friendly is in league, As honour wills him, with Marsilius. _Sac._ Angelica, shall I have a word or two with thee? _Ang._ What pleaseth my lord for to command? _Sac._ Then know, my love, I cannot paint my grief, Nor tell a tale of Venus and her son, Reporting such a catalogue of toys: It fits not Sacripant to be effeminate. Only give leave, my fair Angelica, To say, the county is in love with thee. _Ang._ Pardon, my lord; my loves are over-past: So firmly is Orlando printed in my thoughts, As love hath left no place for any else. _Sac._ Why, overweening damsel, see'st thou not Thy lawless love unto this straggling mate Hath fill'd our Afric regions full of blood? And wilt thou still perséver in thy love? Tush, leave the Palatine, and go with me. _Ang._ Brave county, know, where sacred love unites, The knot of gordian at the shrine of Jove Was never half so hard or intricate As be the bands which lovely Venus ties. Sweet is my love; and, for I love, my lord, Seek not, unless as Alexander did, To cut the plough-swain's traces with thy sword, Or slice the slender fillets of my life: For else, my lord, Orlando must be mine. _Sac._ Stand I on love? Stoop I to Venus' lure, That never yet did fear the god of war? Shall men report that County Sacripant Held lovers' pains for pining passions? Shall such a siren offer me more wrong Than they did to the prince of Ithaca? No; as he his ears, so, county, stop thine eye. Go to your needle, lady, and your clouts; Go to such milksops as are fit for love: I will employ my busy brains for war. _Ang._ Let not, my lord, denial breed offence: Love doth allow her favours but to one, Nor can there sit within the sacred shrine Of Venus more than one installèd heart. Orlando is the gentleman I love, And more than he may not enjoy my love. _Sac._ Damsel, begone: fancy[149] hath taken leave; Where I took hurt, there have I heal'd myself, As those that with Achilles' lance were wounded, Fetch'd help at self-same pointed spear. Beauty can brave, and beauty hath repulse; And, beauty, get ye gone to your Orlando. [_Exit_ ANGELICA.