Robert Greene: [Six Plays]

by Robert Greene

Orl. And what of that?

Org. Therefore unconstant, mutable, having their loves hanging in their eyelids; that as they are got with a look, so they are lost again with a wink. But here's a shepherd; it may be he can tell us news.

Orl. What messenger hath Ate sent abroad
With idle looks to listen my laments?—
Sirrah, who wrongèd happy nature so,
To spoil these trees with this "Angelica?"—
Yet in her name, Orlando, they are blest.
Shep. I am a shepherd-swain, thou wandering knight,
That watch my flocks, not one that follow love.
Orl. As follow love! why darest thou dispraise my heaven,
Or once disgrace or prejudice her name?
Is not Angelica the queen of love,
Deck'd with the compound wreath of Adon's flowers?
She is. Then speak, thou peasant, what is he
That dares attempt to court my queen of love,
Or I shall send thy soul to Charon's charge.
Shep. Brave knight, since fear of death enforceth still
To greater minds submission and relent,
Know that this Medor, whose unhappy name
Is mixèd with the fair Angelica's,
Is even that Medor that enjoys her love.
Yon cave bears witness of their kind content;
Yon meadows talk the actions of their joy;
Our shepherds in their songs of solace sing,
"Angelica doth none but Medor love."
Orl. Angelica doth none but Medor love!
Shall Medor, then, possess Orlando's love?
Dainty and gladsome beams of my delight;
Delicious brows, why smile your heavens for those
That, wounding you, prove poor Orlando's foes?
Lend me your plaints, you sweet Arcadian nymphs,
That wont to sing your new-departed loves;
Thou weeping flood, leavé Orpheus' wail for me;
And, Titan's nieces, gather all in one
Those fluent springs of your lamenting tears,
And let them stream along my faintful looks.
Shep. [aside]. Now is the fire, late smother'd in suspect,
Kindled, and burns within his angry breast:
Now have I done the will of Sacripant.
Orl. Fœmineum servile genus, crudele, superbum:
Discourteous women, nature's fairest ill,
The woe of man, that first-created curse,
Base female sex, sprung from black Ate's loins,
Proud, disdainful, cruel, and unjust,
Whose words are shaded with enchanting wiles,
Worse than Medusa mateth all our minds;
And in their hearts sits shameless treachery,
Turning a truthless vile circumference.
O, could my fury paint their furies forth!
For hell's no hell, comparèd to their hearts,
Too simple devils to conceal their arts;
Born to be plagues unto the thoughts of men,
Brought for eternal pestilence to the world.
O femminile ingegno, dituttimali sede,
Come ti volgi e muti facilmente,
Contrario oggetto proprio de la fede!
O infelice, O miser chi ti crede!
Importune, superbe, dispettose,
Prive d'amor, di fede e di consiglio,
Timerarie, crudeli, inique, ingrate,
Per pestilenzia eterna al mondo nate.[152]
Villain, what art thou that followest me?
Org. Alas, my lord, I am your servant, Orgalio.
Orl. No, villain, thou art Medor; that rann'st away with Angelica.
Org. No, by my troth, my lord, I am Orgalio; ask all these people else.
Orl. Art thou Orgalio? tell me where Medor is.
Org. My lord, look where he sits.
Orl. What, sits he here, and braves me too?
Shep. No, truly, sir, I am not he.
Orl. Yes, villain. [Draws him in by the leg.
Org. Help, help, my lord of Aquitain!

Enter the Duke of Aquitain and Soldiers.

O, my lord of Aquitain, the Count Orlando is run mad, and taking of a shepherd by the heels, rends him as one would tear a lark! See where he comes, with a leg on his neck.

Re-enter Orlando with a leg.

Orl. Villain, provide me straight a lion's skin,
Thou see'st I now am mighty Hercules;
Look where's my massy club upon my neck.
I must to hell to fight with Cerberus,
And find out Medor there or else I die.[153]
You that are the rest, get you quickly away;
Provide ye horses all of burnish'd gold,
Saddles of cork, because I'll have them light;
For Charlemagne the great is up in arms,
And Arthur with a crew of Britons comes
To seek for Medor and Angelica.
[So he beateth them all in before him, except Orgalio.

Enter Marsilius.

Org. Ah, my lord, Orlando—
Mars. Orlando! what of Orlando?
Org. He, my lord, runs madding through the woods,
Like mad Orestes in his greatest rage.
Step but aside into the bordering grove,
There shall you see engraven on every tree
The lawless love of Medor and Angelica.
O, see, my lord, not any shrub but bears
The cursèd stamp that wrought the county's rage.
If thou be'st mighty King Marsilius,
For whom the county would adventure life,
Revenge it on the false Angelica.
Mars. Trust me, Orgalio, Theseus in his rage
Did never more revenge his wrong'd Hippolytus
Than I will on the false Angelica.
Go to my court, and drag me Medor forth;
Tear from his breast the daring villain's heart.
Next take that base and damn'd adulteress,—
I scorn to title her with daughter's name,—
Put her in rags, and, like some shepherdess,
Exile her from my kingdom presently.
Delay not, good Orgalio, see it done.
[Exit Orgalio.