_Ogier._ Leaving the factious county to his death, Command, my lord, his body be convey'd[166] Unto some place, as likes your highness best. See, Marsilius, posting through Africa, We have found this straggling girl, Angelica, Who, for she wrong'd her love Orlando, Chiefest of the western peers, conversing With so mean a man as Medor was, We will have her punish'd by the laws of France, To end her burning lust in flames of fire. _Mars._ Beshrew you, lordings, but you do your worst; Fire, famine, and as cruel death As fell to Nero's mother in his rage. _Angelica._ Father, if I may dare to call thee so, And lords of France, come from the western seas, In quest to find mighty Orlando out, Yet, ere I die, let me have leave to say, Angelica held ever in her thoughts Most dear the love of County Palatine. What wretch hath wrong'd us with suspect of lust I know not, I, nor can accuse the man; But, by the heavens, whereto my soul shall fly, Angelica did never wrong Orlando. I speak not this as one that cares to live, For why my thoughts are fully malcontent; And I conjure you by your chivalry, You quit Orlando's wrong upon Angelica. _Enter_ ORLANDO, _with a scarf before his face._ _Oliver._ Strumpet, fear not, for, by fair Maia's son, This day thy soul shall vanish up in fire, As Semele, when Juno wil'd the trull To entertain the glory of her love. _Orl._ Frenchman, for so thy quaint array imports, Be thou a peer, or be thou Charlemagne, Or hadst thou Hector's or Achilles' heart, Or never-daunted thoughts of Hercules, That did in courage far surpass them all, I tell thee, sir, thou liest in thy throat,-- The greatest brave Transalpine France can brook,-- In saying that sacred Angelica Did offer wrong unto the Palatine. I am a common mercenary soldier; Yet, for I see my princess is abus'd By new-come stragglers from a foreign coast, I dare the proudest of these western lords To crack a blade in trial of her right. _Mand._ Why, foolish-hardy, daring, simple groom, Follower of fond-conceited[167] Phaëton, Know'st thou to whom thou speak'st? _Mars._ Brave soldier, for so much thy courage says, These men are princes, dipt within the blood Of kings most royal, seated in the west, Unfit to accept a challenge at your hand: Yet thanks that thou wouldst in thy lord's defence Fight for my daughter; but her guilt is known. _Ang._ Ay, rest thee, soldier, Angelica is false,-- False, for she hath no trial of her right: Soldier, let me die for the 'miss[168] of all. Wert thou as stout as was proud Theseus, In vain thy blade should offer my defence; For why these be the champions of the world, Twelve Peers of France that never yet were foil'd.