With such vain hope he sought himself to cheat,
       And manned some deal his spirits and awoke;
     Then prest the faithful Brigliadoro’s seat,
       As on the sun’s retreat his sister broke. 
     Not far the warrior had pursued his beat,
       Ere eddying from a roof he saw the smoke;
     Heard noise of dog and kine, a farm espied,
     And thitherward in quest of lodging hied.

     Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador
       To a discreet attendant; one undrest
     His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore,
       And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest. 
     This was the homestead where the young Medore
       Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest. 
     Orlando here, with other food unfed,
     Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed.

* * * * *

     Little availed the count his self-deceit;
       For there was one who spake of it unsought: 
     The shepherd-swain, who to allay the heat
       With which he saw his guest so troubled, thought
     The tale which he was wonted to repeat—­
       Of the two lovers—­to each listener taught;
     A history which many loved to hear,
     He now, without reserve, ’gan tell the peer.

     “How at Angelica’s persuasive prayer,
       He to his farm had carried young Medore,
     Grievously wounded with an arrow; where
       In little space she healed the angry sore. 
     But while she exercised this pious care,
       Love in her heart the lady wounded more,
     And kindled from small spark so fierce a fire,
     She burnt all over, restless with desire;

“Nor thinking she of mightiest king was born,
Who ruled in the East, nor of her heritage,
Forced by too puissant love, had thought no scorn
To be the consort of a poor foot-page.” 
His story done, to them in proof was borne
The gem, which, in reward for harborage,
To her extended in that kind abode,
Angelica, at parting, had bestowed.

* * * * *

In him, forthwith, such deadly hatred breed
That bed, that house, that swain, he will not stay
Till the morn break, or till the dawn succeed,
Whose twilight goes before approaching day. 
In haste, Orlando takes his arms and steed,
And to the deepest greenwood wends his way. 
And when assured that he is there alone,
Gives utterance to his grief in shriek and groan.

     Never from tears, never from sorrowing,
       He paused; nor found he peace by night or day;
     He fled from town, in forest harboring,
       And in the open air on hard earth lay. 
     He marveled at himself, how such a spring
       Of water from his eyes could stream away,
     And breath was for so many sobs supplied;
     And thus oft-times, amid his mourning, cried:—­