_Sac._ Why, overweening damsel, see'st thou not Thy lawless love unto this straggling mate Hath fill'd our Afric regions full of blood? And wilt thou still perséver in thy love? Tush, leave the Palatine, and go with me.
_Ang._ Brave county, know, where sacred love unites, The knot of gordian at the shrine of Jove Was never half so hard or intricate As be the bands which lovely Venus ties. Sweet is my love; and, for I love, my lord, Seek not, unless as Alexander did, To cut the plough-swain's traces with thy sword, Or slice the slender fillets of my life: For else, my lord, Orlando must be mine.
_Sac._ Stand I on love? Stoop I to Venus' lure, That never yet did fear the god of war? Shall men report that County Sacripant Held lovers' pains for pining passions? Shall such a siren offer me more wrong Than they did to the prince of Ithaca? No; as he his ears, so, county, stop thine eye. Go to your needle, lady, and your clouts; Go to such milksops as are fit for love: I will employ my busy brains for war.
_Ang._ Let not, my lord, denial breed offence: Love doth allow her favours but to one, Nor can there sit within the sacred shrine Of Venus more than one installèd heart. Orlando is the gentleman I love, And more than he may not enjoy my love.
_Sac._ Damsel, begone: fancy[149] hath taken leave; Where I took hurt, there have I heal'd myself, As those that with Achilles' lance were wounded, Fetch'd help at self-same pointed spear. Beauty can brave, and beauty hath repulse; And, beauty, get ye gone to your Orlando. [_Exit_ ANGELICA.
_Man._ My lord, hath love amated[150] him whose thoughts Have ever been heroical and brave? Stand you in dumps, like to the Myrmidon Trapt in the tresses of Polyxena, Who, amid the glory of his chivalry, Sat daunted with a maid of Asia?
_Sac._ Thinkst thou my thoughts are lunacies of love? No, they are brands firèd in Pluto's forge, Where sits Tisiphone tempering in flames Those torches that do set on fire revenge. I lov'd the dame; but brav'd by her repulse, Hate calls me on to quittance all my ills; Which first must come by offering prejudice Unto Orlando her belovèd love.
_Man._ O, how may that be brought to pass, my lord?
_Sac._ Thus. Thou see'st that Medor and Angelica Are still so secret in their private walks, As that they trace the shady lawnds, And thickest-shadow'd groves, Which well may breed suspicion of some love. Now, than the French no nation under heaven Is sooner touch'd with sting of jealousy.