_Orl._ Angelica doth none but Medor love! Shall Medor, then, possess Orlando's love? Dainty and gladsome beams of my delight; Delicious brows, why smile your heavens for those That, wounding you, prove poor Orlando's foes? Lend me your plaints, you sweet Arcadian nymphs, That wont to sing your new-departed loves; Thou weeping flood, leavé Orpheus' wail for me; And, Titan's nieces, gather all in one Those fluent springs of your lamenting tears, And let them stream along my faintful looks. _Shep._ [_aside_]. Now is the fire, late smother'd in suspect, Kindled, and burns within his angry breast: Now have I done the will of Sacripant. _Orl. Fœmineum servile genus, crudele, superbum:_ Discourteous women, nature's fairest ill, The woe of man, that first-created curse, Base female sex, sprung from black Ate's loins, Proud, disdainful, cruel, and unjust, Whose words are shaded with enchanting wiles, Worse than Medusa mateth all our minds; And in their hearts sits shameless treachery, Turning a truthless vile circumference. O, could my fury paint their furies forth! For hell's no hell, comparèd to their hearts, Too simple devils to conceal their arts; Born to be plagues unto the thoughts of men, Brought for eternal pestilence to the world. _O femminile ingegno, dituttimali sede,_ _Come ti volgi e muti facilmente,_ _Contrario oggetto proprio de la fede!_ _O infelice, O miser chi ti crede!_ _Importune, superbe, dispettose,_ _Prive d'amor, di fede e di consiglio,_ _Timerarie, crudeli, inique, ingrate,_ _Per pestilenzia eterna al mondo nate._[152] Villain, what art thou that followest me? _Org._ Alas, my lord, I am your servant, Orgalio. _Orl._ No, villain, thou art Medor; that rann'st away with Angelica. _Org._ No, by my troth, my lord, I am Orgalio; ask all these people else. _Orl._ Art thou Orgalio? tell me where Medor is. _Org._ My lord, look where he sits. _Orl._ What, sits he here, and braves me too? _Shep._ No, truly, sir, I am not he. _Orl._ Yes, villain. [_Draws him in by the leg._ _Org._ Help, help, my lord of Aquitain! _Enter the_ DUKE OF AQUITAIN _and_ Soldiers. O, my lord of Aquitain, the Count Orlando is run mad, and taking of a shepherd by the heels, rends him as one would tear a lark! See where he comes, with a leg on his neck. _Re-enter_ ORLANDO _with a leg._