_Man._ My lord, hath love amated[150] him whose thoughts Have ever been heroical and brave? Stand you in dumps, like to the Myrmidon Trapt in the tresses of Polyxena, Who, amid the glory of his chivalry, Sat daunted with a maid of Asia? _Sac._ Thinkst thou my thoughts are lunacies of love? No, they are brands firèd in Pluto's forge, Where sits Tisiphone tempering in flames Those torches that do set on fire revenge. I lov'd the dame; but brav'd by her repulse, Hate calls me on to quittance all my ills; Which first must come by offering prejudice Unto Orlando her belovèd love. _Man._ O, how may that be brought to pass, my lord? _Sac._ Thus. Thou see'st that Medor and Angelica Are still so secret in their private walks, As that they trace the shady lawnds, And thickest-shadow'd groves, Which well may breed suspicion of some love. Now, than the French no nation under heaven Is sooner touch'd with sting of jealousy. _Man._ And what of that, my lord? _Sac._ Hard by, for solace, in a secret grove, The county once a-day fails not to walk: There solemnly he ruminates his love. Upon those shrubs that compass-in the spring, And on those trees that border-in those walks, I'll slily have engrav'n on every bark The names of Medor and Angelica. Hard by, I'll have some roundelays hung up, Wherein shall be some posies of their loves, Fraughted so full of fiery passions As that the county shall perceive by proof Medor hath won his fair Angelica. _Man._ Is this all, my lord? _Sac._ No; for thou like to a shepherd shalt be cloth'd, With staff and bottle, like some country-swain That tends his flocks feeding upon these downs. Here see thou buzz into the county's ears That thou hast often seen within these woods Base Medor sporting with Angelica; And when he hears a shepherd's simple tale, He will not think 'tis feign'd. Then either a madding mood will end his love, Or worse betide him through fond jealousy. _Man._ Excellent, my lord; see how I will play the shepherd. _Sac._ And mark thou how I play the carver: Therefore be gone, and make thee ready straight. [_Exit his_ Man. [SACRIPANT _carves the names and hangs up the roundelays on the trees, and then goes out._ _Re-enter his_ Man _attired like a shepherd._ _Shep._ Thus all alone, and like a shepherd's swain, As Paris, when Œnone lov'd him well, Forgat he was the son of Priamus, All clad in grey, sat piping on a reed; So I transformèd to this country shape, Haunting these groves do work my master's will, To plague the Palatine with jealousy, And to conceit him with some deep extreme.-- Here comes the man unto his wonted walk. _Enter_ ORLANDO _and_ ORGALIO.