_Orl._ Villain, provide me straight a lion's skin, Thou see'st I now am mighty Hercules; Look where's my massy club upon my neck. I must to hell to fight with Cerberus, And find out Medor there or else I die.[153] You that are the rest, get you quickly away; Provide ye horses all of burnish'd gold, Saddles of cork, because I'll have them light; For Charlemagne the great is up in arms, And Arthur with a crew of Britons comes To seek for Medor and Angelica. [_So he beateth them all in before him, except_ ORGALIO. _Enter_ MARSILIUS. _Org._ Ah, my lord, Orlando-- _Mars._ Orlando! what of Orlando? _Org._ He, my lord, runs madding through the woods, Like mad Orestes in his greatest rage. Step but aside into the bordering grove, There shall you see engraven on every tree The lawless love of Medor and Angelica. O, see, my lord, not any shrub but bears The cursèd stamp that wrought the county's rage. If thou be'st mighty King Marsilius, For whom the county would adventure life, Revenge it on the false Angelica. _Mars._ Trust me, Orgalio, Theseus in his rage Did never more revenge his wrong'd Hippolytus Than I will on the false Angelica. Go to my court, and drag me Medor forth; Tear from his breast the daring villain's heart. Next take that base and damn'd adulteress,-- I scorn to title her with daughter's name,-- Put her in rags, and, like some shepherdess, Exile her from my kingdom presently. Delay not, good Orgalio, see it done. [_Exit_ ORGALIO. _Enter a_ Soldier, _with_ MANDRICARD _disguised._ How now, my friend! what fellow hast thou there? _Sol._ He says, my lord, that he is servant unto Mandricard. _Mars._ To Mandricard! It fits me not who sway the diadem, And rule the wealthy realms of Barbary, To stain my thoughts with any cowardice.-- Thy master brav'd me to my teeth, He back'd the Prince of Cuba for my foe; For which nor he nor his shall 'scape my hands. No, soldier, think me resolute as he. _Mand._ It grieves me much that princes disagree, Sith black repentance followeth afterward: But leaving that, pardon me, gracious lord. _Mars._ For thou entreat'st, and newly art arriv'd, And yet thy sword is not imbru'd in blood; Upon conditions, I will pardon thee,-- That thou shalt never tell thy master, Mandricard, Nor any fellow-soldier of the camp, That King Marsilius licens'd thee depart: He shall not think I am so much his friend, That he or one of his shall 'scape my hand. _Mand_ I swear, my lord, and vow to keep my word. _Mars._ Then take my banderol[154] of red; Mine, and none but mine, shall honour thee, And safe conduct thee to Port Carthagene. _Mand._ But say, my lord, if Mandricard were here, What favour should he find, or life or death?