Robert Greene: [Six Plays]

by Robert Greene

ACT THE FOURTH

SCENE I.—The Camp of the Twelve Peers of France.

Enter the Twelve Peers of France, with drum and trumpets.

Ogier. Brave peers of France, sith we have pass'd the bounds,
Whereby the wrangling billows seek for straits
To war with Tellus, and her fruitful mines;
Sith we have furrow'd through those wandering tides
Of Tyrrhene seas, and made our galleys dance
Upon the Hyperborean billows' crests,
That brave with streams the watery occident;
And found the rich and wealthy Indian clime,
Sought-to by greedy minds for hurtful gold;
Now let us seek to venge the lamp of France
That lately was eclipsèd in Angelica;
Now let us seek Orlando forth, our peer,
Though from his former wits lately estrang'd,
Yet famous in our favours as before;
And, sith by chance we all encounter'd be,
Let's seek revenge on her that wrought his wrong.
Namus. But being thus arriv'd in place unknown,
Who shall direct our course unto the court
Where brave Marsilius keeps his royal state?
Ogier. Lo, here, two Indian palmers hard at hand,
Who can perhaps resolve our hidden doubts.

Enter Marsilius and Mandricard like Palmers.

Palmers, God speed.
Mars. Lordings, we greet you well.
Ogier. Where lies Marsilius' court, friend, canst thou tell?
Mars. His court's his camp; the prince is now in arms.
Turpin. In arms! What's he that dares annoy so great a king?
Mand. Such as both love and fury do confound:
Fierce Sacripant, incens'd with strange desires,
Wars on Marsilius, and, Rodomont being dead,
Hath levied all his men, and traitor-like
Assails his lord and loving sovereign:
And Mandricard, who late hath been in arms
To prosecute revenge against Marsilius,
Is now through favours past become his friend.
Thus stands the state of matchless India.
Ogier. Palmer, I like thy brave and brief discourse;
And, couldst thou bring us to the prince's camp,
We would acknowledge friendship at thy hands.
Mars. Ye stranger lords, why seek ye out Marsilius?
Ogier. In hope that he, whose empire is so large,
Will make both mind and monarchy agree.
Mars. Whence are you, lords, and what request you here?
Namus. A question over-haughty for thy weed,
Fit for the king himself for to propound.
Mand. O, sir, know that under simple weeds
The gods have mask'd: then deem not with disdain
To answer to this palmer's question,
Whose coat includes perhaps as great as yours.
Ogier. Haughty their words, their persons full of state;
Though habit be but mean, their minds excel.—
Well, palmers, know that princes are in India arriv'd,
Yea, even those western princely peers of France
That through the world adventures undertake,
To find Orlando late incens'd with rage.
Then, palmers, sith you know our styles and state,
Advise us where your king Marsilius is.
Mars. Lordings of France, here is Marsilius,
That bids you welcome into India,
And will in person bring you to his camp.
Ogier. Marsilius! and thus disguis'd!
Mars. Even Marsilius, and thus disguis'd.
But what request these princes at my hand?
Turpin. We sue for law and justice at thy hand:
We seek Angelica thy daughter out;
That wanton maid, that hath eclips'd the joy
Of royal France, and made Orlando mad.
Mars. My daughter, lords! why, she is exil'd;
And her griev'd father is content to lose
The pleasance of his age, to countenance law.
Oliver. Not only exile shall await Angelica,
But death and bitter death shall follow her.
Then yield us right, Marsilius, or our swords
Shall make thee fear to wrong the peers of France.
Mars. Words cannot daunt me, princes, be assur'd;
But law and justice shall o'er-rule in this,
And I will bury father's name and love.
The hapless maid, banish'd from out my land,
Wanders about in woods and ways unknown:
Her, if ye find, with fury persecute;
I now disdain the name to be her father.
Lords of France, what would you more of me?
Ogier. Marsilius, we commend thy princely mind,
And will report thy justice through the world.—
Come, peers of France, let's seek Angelica,
Left for a spoil to our revenging thoughts. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—A Grove.

Enter Orlando like a poet, and Orgalio.

Orl. Orgalio, is not my love like those purple-colour'd swans
That gallop by the coach of Cynthia?
Org. Yes, marry, is she, my lord.
Orl. Is not her face silver'd like that milk-white shape
That Jove came dancing in to Semele?
Org. It is, my lord.
Orl. Then go thy ways, and climb up to the clouds,
And tell Apollo that Orlando sits
Making of verses for Angelica.
And if he do deny to send me down
The shirt which Deianira sent to Hercules,
To make me brave upon my wedding day,
Tell him I'll pass the Alps, and up to Meroe,
(I know he knows that watery lakish hill,)
And pull the harp out of the minstrel's hands,
And pawn it unto lovely Proserpine,
That she may fetch the fair Angelica.

Org. But, my lord, Apollo is asleep, and will not hear me.

Orl. Then tell him, he is a sleepy knave: but, sirrah, let nobody trouble me, for I must lie down a while, and talk with the stars. [Lies down and sleeps.

Enter a Fiddler.

Org. What, old acquaintance! well met.[161]

Fid. Ho, you would have me play Angelica again, would ye not?

Org. No, but I can tell thee where thou may'st earn two or three shillings this morning, even with the turning of a hand.

Fid. Two or three shillings! tush, thou wolt cozen me, thou: but an thou canst tell where I may earn a groat, I'll give thee sixpence for thy pains.

Org. Then play a fit of mirth to my lord.

Fid. Why, he is mad still, is he not?

Org. No, no: come, play.

Fid. At which side doth he use to give his reward?

Org. Why, of any side.

Fid. Doth he not use to throw the chamber-pot sometimes? 'Twould grieve me he should wet my fiddle-strings.

Org. Tush, I warrant thee. [The Fiddler plays and sings any odd fey, and Orlando wakes.

Orl. Who is this? Shan Cuttelero! heartily welcome, Shan Cuttelero.

Fid. No, sir, you should have said "Shan the Fidideldero."

Orl. What, hast thou brought me a sword? [Takes away his fiddle.

Fid. A sword! no, no, sir, that's my fiddle.

Orl. But dost thou think the temper to be good?
And will it hold, when thus and thus we Medor do assail?
[Strikes and beats him with the fiddle.
Fid. Lord, sir, you'll break my living!—[to Orgalio]
You told me your master was not mad.
Orl. Tell me, why hast thou marr'd my sword?
The pummel's well, the blade is curtal short:
Villain, why hast thou made it so?
[Breaks the fiddle about his head.

Fid. O Lord, sir, will you answer this? [Exit.

Enter Melissa with a glass of wine.

Orl. Orgalio, who is this?

Org. Faith, my lord, some old witch, I think.

Mel. O, that my lord would but conceit[162] my tale!
Then would I speak and hope to find redress.

Orl. Fair Polixena, the pride of Ilion
Fear not Achilles' over-madding boy;
Pyrrhus shall not, etc.—[163]
Souns, Orgalio, why sufferest thou this old trot to come so nigh me?
Org. Come, come, stand by, your breath stinks.
Orl. What! be all the Trojans fled?
Then give me some drink.

Mel. Here, Palatine, drink; and ever be thou better for this draught.

Orl. What's here? The paltry bottle that Darius quaff'd?
[He drinks, and she charms him with her wand, and he lies down to sleep.
Else would I set my mouth to Tigris' streams,
And drink up overflowing Euphrates.
My eyes are heavy, and I needs must sleep.

[Melissa strikes with her wand, and the Satyrs enter with music; and play round about him; which done, they stay; he awakes and speaks.

What shows are these, that fill mine eyes
With view of such regard as heaven admires
To see my slumbering dreams!
Skies are fulfill'd with lamps of lasting joy,
That boast the pride of haught Latona's son;
He lighteneth all the candles of the night.
Mnemosyne hath kiss'd the kingly Jove,
And entertain'd a feast within my brains,
Making her daughters'[164] solace on my brow.
Methinks, I feel how Cynthia tunes conceits
Of sad repeat, and melloweth those desires
Which frenzy scarce had ripen'd in my head.
Ate, I'll kiss thy restless cheek a while,
And suffer fruitless passion bide control.
[Lies down again.
Mel. O vos Silvani, Satyri, Faunique, deæque,
Nymphæ, Hamadryades, Dryades, Parcæque potentes!
O vos qui colitis lacusque locosque profundos,
Infernasque domus et nigra palatia Ditis!
Tuque Demogorgon, qui noctis fata gubernas,
Qui regis infernum solium, cælumque, solumque!
Exaudite preces, filiasque auferte micantes;
In caput Orlandi celestes spargite lymphas,
Spargite, quis misere revocetur rapta per umbras
Orlandi infelix anima.
[Then let the music play before him, and so go forth.
Orl. What sights, what shows, what fearful shapes are these?
More dreadful than appear'd to Hecuba,
When fall of Troy was figur'd in her sleep!
Juno, methought, sent down from heaven by Jove,
Came swiftly sweeping through the gloomy air;
And calling Iris, sent her straight abroad
To summon Fauns, the Satyrs, and the Nymphs,
The Dryads, and all the demigods,
To secret council; [and, their] parle past,[165]
She gave them vials full of heavenly dew.
With that, mounted upon her parti-coloured coach,
Being drawn with peacocks proudly through the air,
She flew with Iris to the sphere of Jove.
What fearful thoughts arise upon this show!
What desert grove is this! How thus disguis'd?
Where is Orgalio?
Org. Here, my lord.
Orl. Sirrah, how came I thus disguis'd,
Like mad Orestes, quaintly thus attir'd?

Org. Like mad Orestes! nay, my lord, you may boldly justify the comparison, for Orestes was never so mad in his life as you were.

Orl. What, was I mad? what Fury hath enchanted me?

Mel. A Fury, sure, worse than Megæra was,
That reft her son from trusty Pylades.

Orl. Why what art thou, some sibyl, or some goddess? freely speak.

Mel. Time not affords to tell each circumstance:
But thrice hath Cynthia chang'd her hue,
Since thou, infected with a lunacy,
Hast gadded up and down these lawnds and groves,
Performing strange and ruthful stratagems,
All for the love of fair Angelica,
Whom thou with Medor didst suppose play'd false.
But Sacripant had graven these roundelays,
To sting thee with infecting jealousy:
The swain that told thee of their oft converse,
Was servant unto County Sacripant:
And trust me, Orlando, Angelica,
Though true to thee, is banish'd from the court
And Sacripant this day bids battle to Marsilius.
The armies ready are to give assail;
And on a hill that overpeers them both
Stand all the worthy matchless peers of France,
Who are in quest to seek Orlando out.
Muse not at this, for I have told thee true:
I am she that curèd thy disease.
Here, take these weapons, given thee by the fates,
And hie thee, county, to the battle straight.
Orl. Thanks, sacred goddess, for thy helping hand,
Thither will I hie to be reveng'd.
[Exeunt.

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