_Orl._ [_reads_]. "_Angelica is lady of his heart,_ _Angelica is substance of his joy,_ _Angelica is medicine of his smart,_ _Angelica hath healèd his annoy._" Ah, false Angelica!--what, have we more? [_Reads._ "_Let groves, let rocks, let woods, let watery springs,_ _The cedar, cypress, laurel, and the pine,_ _Joy in the notes of love that Medor sings_ _Of those sweet looks, Angelica, of thine._ _Then, Medor, in Angelica take delight,_ _Early, at morn, at noon, at even and night._" What, dares Medor court my Venus? What may Orlando deem? Ætna, forsake the bounds of Sicily, For now in me thy restless flames appear. Refus'd, contemn'd, disdain'd! what worse than these?--Orgalio! _Re-enter_ ORGALIO. _Org._ My lord? _Orl._ Boy, view these trees carvèd with true love-knots, The inscription "_Medor and Angelica_?"; And read these verses hung up of their loves: Now tell me, boy, what dost thou think? _Org._ By my troth, my lord, I think Angelica is a woman. _Orl._ And what of that? _Org._ Therefore unconstant, mutable, having their loves hanging in their eyelids; that as they are got with a look, so they are lost again with a wink. But here's a shepherd; it may be he can tell us news. _Orl._ What messenger hath Ate sent abroad With idle looks to listen my laments?-- Sirrah, who wrongèd happy nature so, To spoil these trees with this "_Angelica_?"-- Yet in her name, Orlando, they are blest. _Shep._ I am a shepherd-swain, thou wandering knight, That watch my flocks, not one that follow love. _Orl._ As follow love! why darest thou dispraise my heaven, Or once disgrace or prejudice her name? Is not Angelica the queen of love, Deck'd with the compound wreath of Adon's flowers? She is. Then speak, thou peasant, what is he That dares attempt to court my queen of love, Or I shall send thy soul to Charon's charge. _Shep._ Brave knight, since fear of death enforceth still To greater minds submission and relent, Know that this Medor, whose unhappy name Is mixèd with the fair Angelica's, Is even that Medor that enjoys her love. Yon cave bears witness of their kind content; Yon meadows talk the actions of their joy; Our shepherds in their songs of solace sing, "Angelica doth none but Medor love."