_Mel._ A Fury, sure, worse than Megæra was, That reft her son from trusty Pylades. _Orl._ Why what art thou, some sibyl, or some goddess? freely speak. _Mel._ Time not affords to tell each circumstance: But thrice hath Cynthia chang'd her hue, Since thou, infected with a lunacy, Hast gadded up and down these lawnds and groves, Performing strange and ruthful stratagems, All for the love of fair Angelica, Whom thou with Medor didst suppose play'd false. But Sacripant had graven these roundelays, To sting thee with infecting jealousy: The swain that told thee of their oft converse, Was servant unto County Sacripant: And trust me, Orlando, Angelica, Though true to thee, is banish'd from the court And Sacripant this day bids battle to Marsilius. The armies ready are to give assail; And on a hill that overpeers them both Stand all the worthy matchless peers of France, Who are in quest to seek Orlando out. Muse not at this, for I have told thee true: I am she that curèd thy disease. Here, take these weapons, given thee by the fates, And hie thee, county, to the battle straight. _Orl._ Thanks, sacred goddess, for thy helping hand, Thither will I hie to be reveng'd. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE FIFTH SCENE I.--_A Battle-field._ _Alarums: enter_ SACRIPANT _crowned, and pursuing_ MARSILIUS _and_ MANDRICARD. _Sac._ Viceroys, you are dead; For Sacripant, already crown'd a king, Heaves up his sword to have your diadems. _Mars._ Traitor, not dead, nor any whit dismay'd; For dear we prize the smallest drop of blood. _Enter_ ORLANDO _with a scarf before his face._ _Orl._ Stay, princes, 'base not yourselves to combat such a dog. Mount on your coursers, follow those that fly, And let your conquering swords be tainted in their bloods: Pass ye for him; he shall be combated. [_Exeunt_ MARSILIUS _and_ MANDRICARD. _Sac._ Why, what art thou that brav'st me thus? _Orl._ I am, thou see'st, a mercenary soldier, Homely attir'd, but of so haughty thoughts, As naught can serve to quench th' aspiring flames, That burn as do the fires of Sicily, Unless I win that princely diadem, That seems so ill upon thy coward's head. _Sac._ Coward! To arms, sir boy! I will not brook these braves, If Mars himself, even from his fiery throne Came arm'd with all his furnitures of war. [_They fight, and_ SACRIPANT _falls._ O villain! thou hast slain a prince. _Orl._ Then mayst thou think that Mars himself came down, To vail thy plumes and heave thee from thy pomp. Proud that thou art, I reck not of thy gree, But I will have the conquest of my sword, Which is the glory of thy diadem. _Sac._ These words bewray thou art no base-born Moor, But by descent sprung from some royal line: Then freely tell me, what's thy name?