Robert Greene: [Six Plays]

by Robert Greene

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.