_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.
_Orl._ How, madam, the Twelve Peers of France! Why, let them be twelve devils of hell, What I have said, I'll pawn my sword, To seal it on the shield of him that dares, Malgrado[169] of his honour, combat me.
_Turpin._ Chastise the groom, Oliver, and learn him know We are not like the boys of Africa.
_Orl._ Hear you, sir? You that so peremptorily bade him fight, Prepare your weapons, for your turn is next: 'Tis not one champion can discourage me. Come, are ye ready? [_He fights first with one, and then with the other, and overcomes them both._ So stand aside:--and, madam, if my fortune last it out, I'll guard your person with Twelve Peers of France.
_Ogier._ [_aside_]. O Ogier, how canst thou stand, and see a slave Disgrace the house of France?--Sirrah, prepare you; For angry Nemesis sits on my sword to be reveng'd. [_They fight a good while, and then breathe._
_Ogier._ Howe'er disguis'd in base or Indian shape, Ogier can well discern thee by thy blows; For either thou art Orlando or the devil.
_Orl._ [_taking off his scarf_]. Then, to assure you that I am no devil, Here's your friend and companion, Orlando.
_Ogier._ And none can be more glad than Ogier is, That he hath found his cousin in his sense.
_Oliver._ Whenas I felt his blows upon my shield, My teeth did chatter, and my thoughts conceiv'd, Who might this be, if not the Palatine.
_Turpin._ So had I said, but that report did tell My lord was troubled with a lunacy.
_Orl._ So was I, lordings; but give me leave awhile, Humbly as Mars did to his paramour, So to submit to fair Angelica.-- Pardon thy lord, fair saint Angelica, Whose love, stealing by steps into extremes, Grew by suspect to causeless lunacy.