Turning him round, he there, on many a tree, Beheld engraved, upon the woody shore, What as the writing of his deity He knew, as soon as he had marked the lore. This was a place of those described by me, Whither ofttimes, attended by Medore, From the near shepherd's cot had wont to stray The beauteous lady, sovereign of Cathay. In a hundred knots, amid those green abodes, In a hundred parts, their cyphered names are dight; Whose many letters are so many goads, Which Love has in his bleeding heart-core pight. He would discredit in a thousand modes, That which he credits in his own despite; And would parforce persuade himself, _that_ rhind Other Angelica than his had signed. He tries to convince himself that there is no truth in all this, but in vain, for meeting the shepherd at whose house Angelica had brought Medoro, he learns in detail the whole story. Upon hearing this he rushes forth from the cottage and hastens to the forest, where he can give full vent to the sorrow that fills his heart, and where he gradually loses all control of himself, and finally becomes raging mad: All night about the forest roved the count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Medoro wrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount, Inflamed his fury so, in him was nought But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright. Cleft through the writing; and the solid block, Into the sky, in tiny fragments sped. Wo worth each sapling and that caverned rock, Where Medore and Angelica were read! So scathed, that they to shepherd or to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed. And that sweet fountain, late so clear and pure, From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure. For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop Cast without cease into the beauteous source; Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, Never again was clear the troubled course. At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force, Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs. Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground, And turned his eyes toward heaven; nor spake he aught, Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. At length, impelled by frenzy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away. Thus begins the madness of Orlando, who, after performing prodigious deeds of strength on men, cattle, and trees, is seized with restlessness, and wanders far and wide: