_Orl._ Nay, first let me know thine. _Sac._ Then know that thou hast slain Prince Sacripant. _Orl._ Sacripant! Then let me at thy dying day entreat, By that same sphere wherein thy soul shall rest, If Jove deny not passage to thy ghost, Thou tell me whether thou wrong'dst Angelica or no? _Sac._ O, that's the sting that pricks my conscience! O, that's the hell my thoughts abhor to think! I tell thee, knight, for thou dost seem no less, That I engrav'd the roundelays on the trees, And hung the schedules of poor Medor's love, Intending so to breed debate Between Orlando and Angelica: O, thus I wrong'd Orlando and Angelica! Now tell me, what shall I call thy name? _Orl._ Then dead is the fatal author of my ill. Base villain, vassal, unworthy of a crown, Know that the man that struck the fatal stroke Is Orlando, the County Palatine, Whom fortune sent to quittance all my wrongs. Thou foil'd and slain, it now behoves me straight To hie me fast to massacre thy men: And so, farewell, thou devil in shape of man. [_Exit._ _Sac._ Hath Demogorgon, ruler of the fates, Set such a baleful period on my life As none might end the days of Sacripant But mighty Orlando, rival of my love? Now hold the fatal murderers of men The sharpen'd knife ready to cut my thread, Ending the scene of all my tragedy: This day, this hour, this minute ends the days Of him that liv'd worthy old Nestor's age. Phœbus, put on thy sable-suited wreath, Clad all thy spheres in dark and mourning weeds: Parch'd be the earth, to drink up every spring: Let corn and trees be blasted from above; Heaven turn to brass, and earth to wedge of steel; The world to cinders. Mars, come thundering down, And never sheath thy swift-revenging sword, Till, like the deluge in Deucalion's days, The highest mountains swim in streams of blood. Heaven, earth, men, beasts, and every living thing, Consume and end with County Sacripant! [_Dies._ SCENE II.--_The Camp of_ MARSILIUS. _Enter_ MARSILIUS, MANDRICARD, _and the_ Twelve Peers _with_ ANGELICA. _Mars._ Fought is the field, and Sacripant is slain, With such a massacre of all his men, As Mars, descending in his purple robe, Vows with Bellona in whole heaps of blood To banquet all the demigods of war. _Mand._ See, where he lies slaughter'd without the camp, And by a simple swain, a mercenary, Who bravely took the combat to himself: Might I but know the man that did the deed, I would, my lord, etérnize him with fame.