Orlando Furioso

CANTO 20

AR­GU­MENT Gui­do and his from that foul haunt re­tire, While all As­tolpho chas­es with his horn, Who to all quar­ters of the town sets fire, Then rov­ing singly round the world is borne. Marphisa, for Gab­ri­na’s cause, in ire Puts up­on young Zerbino scathe and scorn, And makes him guardian of Gab­ri­na fell, From whom he first learns news of Is­abel.

I Great fears the wom­en of an­tiq­ui­ty In arms and hal­lowed arts as well have done, And of their wor­thy works the mem­ory And lus­tre through this am­ple world has shone. Praised is Camil­la, with Harpal­ice, For the fair course which they in bat­tle run. Corin­na and Sap­pho, fa­mous for their lore, Shine two il­lus­tri­ous light, to set no more.

II Wom­en have reached the pin­na­cle of glo­ry, In ev­ery art by them pro­fessed, well seen; And whoso­ev­er turns the leaf of sto­ry, Finds record of them, nei­ther dim nor mean. The evil in­flu­ence will be tran­si­to­ry, If long de­prived of such the world had been; And en­vi­ous men, and those that nev­er knew Their worth, have hap­ly hid their hon­ours due.

III To me it plain­ly seems, in this our age Of wom­en such is the celebri­ty, That it may fur­nish mat­ter to the page, Whence this dis­persed to fu­ture years shall be; And you, ye evil tongues which foul­ly rage, Be tied to your eter­nal in­famy, And wom­en’s prais­es so re­splen­dent show, They shall, by much, Marphisa’s worth out­go.

IV To her re­turn­ing yet again; the dame To him who showed to her such cour­te­ous lore, Re­fused not to dis­close her mar­tial name, Since he agreed to tell the style be bore. She quick­ly sat­is­fied the war­rior’s claim; To learn his ti­tle she de­sired so sore. “I am Marphisa,” the vi­ra­go cried: All else was known, as bruit­ed far and wide.

V The oth­er, since ’twas his to speak, be­gun With longer pream­ble: “Amid your train, Sirs, it is my be­lief that there is none But has heard men­tion of my race and strain. Not Pon­tus, Aethiopia, Ind alone, With all their neigh­bour­ing realms, but France and Spain Wot well of Cler­mont, from whose loins the knight Is­sued who killed Al­montes bold in fight,

VI “And Chiareil­lo and Mam­bri­no slew, And sacked the realm whose roy­al crown they wore. Come of this blood, where Danube’s wa­ters, through Eight horns or ten to meet the Eu­xine pour, Me to the far-​renowned Duke Ay­mon, who Thith­er a stranger roved, my moth­er bore. And ’tis a twelve­month now since her, in quest Of my French kin, I left with grief op­prest.

VII “But reached not France, for south­ern tem­pest’s spite Im­pelled me hith­er; lodged in roy­al bow­er Ten months or more; for — mis­er­able wight! — I reck­on ev­ery day and ev­ery hour. Gui­do the Sav­age I by name am hight, Ill known and scarce­ly proved in war­like stow­er. Here Argilon of Meli­boea I Slew with ten war­riors in his com­pa­ny.

VI­II “Con­queror as well in oth­er field con­fessed, Ten ladies are the part­ners of my bed: Se­lect­ed at my choice, who are the best And fairest damsels in this king­dom bred: These I com­mand, as well as all the rest, Who of their fe­male band have made me head; And so would make an­oth­er who in fight, Like me, ten op­po­sites to death would smite.”

IX Sir Gui­do is be­sought of them to say Why there ap­pear so few of the male race, And to de­clare if wom­en there bear sway O’er men, as men o’er them in oth­er place. He: “Since my for­tune has been here to stay, I of­ten­times have heard re­late the case; And now (ac­cord­ing to the sto­ry told) Will, since it pleas­es you, the cause un­fold.

X “When, af­ter twen­ty years, the Gre­cian host Re­turned from Troy (ten years hos­til­ity The town en­dured, ten weary years were tost The Greeks, de­tained by ad­verse winds at sea), They found their wom­en had, for com­forts lost, And pangs of ab­sence, learned a rem­edy; And, that they might not freeze alone in bed, Cho­sen young lovers in their hus­bands’ stead.

XI “With oth­ers’ chil­dren filled the Gre­cian crew Their hous­es found, and by con­sent was past A par­don to their wom­en; for they knew How ill they could en­dure so long a fast. But the adul­ter­ous is­sue, as their due, To seek their for­tunes on the world were cast: Be­cause the hus­bands would not suf­fer more The striplings should be nour­ished from their store.

XII “Some are ex­posed, and oth­ers un­der­hand Their kind­ly moth­ers shel­ter and main­tain: While the adults, in many a var­ious band, Some here, some there dis­persed, their liv­ing gain. Arms are the trade of some, by some are scanned Let­ters and arts; an­oth­er tills the plain: One serves in court, by oth­er guid­ed go The herd as pleas­es her who rules be­low.

XI­II “A boy de­part­ed with they youth­ful peers, Who was of cru­el Clytemnes­tra born; Like lily fresh (he num­bered eigh­teen years) Or bloom­ing rose, new-​gath­ered from the thorn. He hav­ing armed a bark, his pin­nace steers In search of plun­der, o’er the bil­lows borne. With him a hun­dred oth­er youths en­gage, Picked from all Greece, and of their lead­er’s age.

XIV “The Cre­tans, who had ban­ished in that day Idomeneus the tyrant of their land, And their new state to strength­en and up­stay, Were gath­er­ing arms and levy­ing mar­tial band, Pha­lan­tus’ ser­vice by their good­ly pay Pur­chased (so hight the youth who sought that strand), And all those oth­ers that his for­tune run, Who the Dic­taean city gar­ri­son.

XV “Amid the hun­dred cities of old Crete, Was the Dic­taean the most rich and bright; Of fair and amorous dames the joy­ous seat, Joy­ous with fes­tive sports from morn to night: And (as her towns­men aye were wont to greet The stranger) with such hos­pitable rite They wel­comed these, it lit­tle lacked but they Grant­ed them o’er their house­holds sovereign sway.

XVI “Youth­ful and pass­ing fair were all the crew, The flow­er of Greece, who bold Pha­lan­tus led; So that with those fair ladies at first view, Steal­ing their hearts, full well the striplings sped. Since, fair in deed as show, they good and true Lovers evinced them­selves and bold in bed. And in few days to them so grate­ful proved, Above all dear­est things they were beloved.

XVII “Af­ter the war was end­ed on ac­cord, For which were hired Pha­lan­tus and his train, And pay with­drawn, nor longer by the sword Was aught which the ad­ven­tur­ous youth can gain, And they, for this, anew would go aboard, The un­hap­py Cre­tan wom­en more com­plain, And fuller tears on this oc­ca­sion shed, That if their fa­thers lay be­fore them dead.

XVI­II “Long time and sore­ly all the striplings bold Were, each apart, by them im­plored to stay: Who since the fleet­ing youths they can­not hold, Leave broth­er, sire, and son, with these to stray, Of jew­els and of weighty sums of gold Spoil­ing their house­holds ere they wend their way, For so well was the plot con­cealed, no wight Through­out all Crete was privy to their flight.

XIX “So hap­py was the hour, so fair the wind, When young Pha­lan­tus chose his time to flee, They many miles had left the isle be­hind, Ere Crete lament­ed her calami­ty. Next, un­in­hab­it­ed by hu­man kind, This shore re­ceived them wan­der­ing o’er the sea. ‘Twas here they set­tled, with the plun­der reft, And bet­ter weighed the is­sue of their theft.

XX “With amorous plea­sures teemed this place of rest, For ten days, to that rov­ing com­pa­ny: But, as oft hap­pens that in youth­ful breast Abun­dance brings with it sati­ety, To quit their wom­en, with one wish pos­sest, The band re­solved to win their lib­er­ty; For nev­er bur­den does so sore op­press As wom­an, when her love breeds weari­ness.

XXI “They, who are cov­etous of spoil and gain, And ill-​best­ed with­al in stipend, know That bet­ter means are want­ed to main­tain So many paramours, than shaft and bow; And leav­ing thus alone the wretched train, Thence, with their rich­es charged the ad­ven­tur­ers go For Puglia’s pleas­ant land: there found­ed near The sea, Tar­en­tum’s city, as I hear.

XXII “The wom­en when they find them­selves be­trayed Of lovers by whose faith they set most store, For many days re­main so sore dis­mayed, That they seem life­less stat­ues on the shore. But see­ing lamen­ta­tions noth­ing aid, And fruit­less are the many tears they pour, Be­gin to med­itate, amid their pains, What rem­edy for such an ill re­mains.

XXI­II “Some lay­ing their opin­ions now be­fore The oth­ers, deem that to re­turn to Crete Is in their sad es­tate the wis­er lore, Throw­ing them­selves at sire and hus­band’s feet, Than in those wilds, and on that desert shore, To pine of want. An­oth­er troop re­peat, They should es­teem it were a wor­thi­er no­tion To cast them­selves in­to the neigh­bour­ing ocean;

XXIV “And lighter ill, if they as har­lots went About the world, — beg­gars or slaves to be, Than of­fer up them­selves for pun­ish­ment, Well mer­it­ed by their in­iq­ui­ty. Such and like schemes the un­hap­py dames present, Each hard­er than the oth­er. Fi­nal­ly, One Oron­tea amid these up­stood, Who drew her ori­gin from Mi­nos’ blood.

XXV “Youngest and fairest of the crew be­trayed She was, and wari­est, and who least had erred, Who to Pha­lan­tus’ arms had come a maid, And left for him her fa­ther: she in word, As well as in a kin­dling face, dis­played How much with gen­er­ous wrath her heart was stirred; Then, repro­bat­ing all ad­vised be­fore, Spake; and adopt­ed saw her bet­ter lore.

XXVI “She would not leave the land they were up­on, Whose soil was fruit­ful, and whose air was sane, Through­out which many limpid rivers ran, Shad­ed with woods, and for the most part plain; With creek and port, where stranger bark could shun Foul wind or storm, which vexed the neigh­bour­ing main, That might from Afric or from Egypt bring Vict­ual or oth­er nec­es­sary thing.

XXVII “For vengeance (she opined) they there should stay Up­on man’s sex, which had so sore of­fend­ed. She willed each bark and crew which to that bay For shel­ter from the an­gry tem­pest wend­ed, They should, with­out re­morse, burn, sack, and slay, Nor mer­cy be to any one ex­tend­ed. Such was the la­dy’s mo­tion, such the course Adopt­ed; and the statute put in force.

XXVI­II “The wom­en, when they see the chang­ing heav­en Tur­bid with tem­pest, hur­ry to the strand, With sav­age Oron­tea, by whom giv­en Was the fell law, the ruler of the land; And of all barks in­to their haven driv­en Make hav­oc dread with fire and mur­der­ous brand, Leav­ing no man alive, who may dif­fuse Up­on this side or that the dis­mal news.

XXIX ” ‘Twas thus with the male sex at en­mi­ty, Some years the lone­ly wom­en lived for­lorn: Then found that hurt­ful to them­selves would be The scheme, save changed; for if from them were born None to per­pet­uate their em­pery, The idle law would soon be held in scorn, And fail to­geth­er with the fruit­ful reign, Which they had hoped eter­nal should re­main.

XXX “So that some deal its rigour they al­lay, And in four years, of all who made re­pair Thith­er, by chance con­duct­ed to this bay, Chose out ten vig­or­ous cav­aliers and fair; That for en­durance in the amorous play Against those hun­dred dames good cham­pi­ons were: A hun­dred they; and, of the cho­sen men, A hus­band was as­signed to ev­ery ten.

XXXI “Ere this, too fee­ble to abide the test, Many a one on scaf­fold lost his head. Now these ten war­riors so ap­proved the best, Were made par­tak­ers of their rule and bed; First swear­ing at the sovereign ladies’ hest, That they, if oth­ers to that port are led, No mer­cy shall to any one af­ford, But one and all will put them to the sword.

XXXII “To swell, and next to child, and thence to fear The wom­en turned to teem­ing wives be­gan Lest they in time so many males should bear As might in­vade the sovereign­ty they plan, And that the gov­ern­ment they hold so dear Might fi­nal­ly from them re­vert to man. And so, while these are chil­dren yet, take mea­sure, They nev­er shall rebel against their plea­sure.

XXXI­II “That the male sex may not usurp the sway, It is en­act­ed by the statute fell, Each moth­er should one boy pre­serve, and slay The oth­ers, or abroad ex­change or sell. For this, they these to var­ious parts con­vey, And to the bear­ers of the chil­dren tell, To truck the girls for boys in for­eign lands, Or not, at least, re­turn with emp­ty hands.

XXXIV “Nor by the wom­en one pre­served would be, If they with­out them could the race main­tain. Such all their mer­cy, all the clemen­cy The law ac­cords for theirs, not oth­ers’ gain. The dames all oth­ers sen­tence equal­ly; And tem­per but in this their statute’s pain, That, not as was their for­mer prac­tice, they All in their rage promis­cu­ous­ly slay.

XXXV “Did ten or twen­ty per­sons, or yet more, Ar­rive, they were im­pris­oned and put by; And ev­ery day one on­ly from the store Of vic­tims was brought out by lot to die, In fane by Oron­tea built, be­fore An al­tar raised to Vengeance; and to ply As heads­man, and dis­patched the un­hap­py men, One was by lot se­lect­ed from the ten.

XXXVI “To that foul mur­der­ous shore by chance did fare, Af­ter long years elapsed, a youth­ful wight, Whose fa­thers sprung from good Al­cides were, And he, of proof in arms, El­banio hight; There was he seized, of per­il scarce aware, As un­sus­pect­ing such a foul de­spite: And, close­ly guard­ed, in­to prison flung, Kept for like cru­el use the rest among.

XXXVII “Adorned with ev­ery fair ac­com­plish­ment, Of pleas­ing face and man­ners was the peer, And of a speech so sweet and elo­quent, Him the deaf adder might have stopt to hear; So that of him to Alexan­dria went Tid­ings as of a pre­cious thing and rare. She was the daugh­ter of that ma­tron bold, Queen Oron­tea, that yet lived, though old.

XXXVI­II “Yet Oron­tea lived, while of that shore The oth­er set­tlers all were dead and gone; And now ten times as many such or more Had in­to strength and greater cred­it grown. Nor for ten forges, of­ten closed, in store Have the ill-​fur­nished band more files than one; And the ten cham­pi­ons have as well the care To wel­come shrewd­ly all who thith­er fare.

XXXIX “Young Alexan­dria, who the bloom­ing peer Burned to be­hold so praised on ev­ery part, The spe­cial plea­sure him to see and hear, Won from her moth­er; and, about to part From him, dis­cov­ers that the cav­alier Re­mains the mas­ter of her tor­tured heart; Finds her­self bound, and that ’tis vain to stir, — A cap­tive made by her own pris­on­er.

XL ” `I pity,’ (said El­banio) ‘la­dy fair, Was in this cru­el re­gion known, as through All oth­er coun­tries near or dis­tant, where The wan­der­ing sun sheds light and colour­ing hue, I by your beau­ty’s kind­ly charms should dare (Which make each gen­tle spir­it bound to you) To beg my life; which al­ways, at your will, Should I be ready for your love to spill.

XLI ” `But since de­prived of all hu­man­ity Are hu­man bo­soms in this cru­el land, I shall not now re­quest my life of thee, (For fruit­less would, I know, be the de­mand) But, whether a good knight or bad I be, Ask but like such to die with arms in hand, And not as one con­demned to pe­nal pain; Or like brute beast in sac­ri­fice be slain.’

XLII “The gen­tle maid, her eye be­dimmed with tear, In pity for the hap­less youth, replied: `Though this land be more cru­el and se­vere Than any oth­er coun­try, far and wide, Each wom­an is not a Medaea here As thou wouldst make her; and, if all be­side Were of such evil kind, in me alone Should an ex­cep­tion to the rest be known.

XLI­II ” `And though I, like so many here, of yore Was full of evil deeds and cru­el­ty, I can well say, I nev­er had be­fore A fit­ting sub­ject for my clemen­cy. But fiercer were I than a tiger, more Hard were my heart than di­amonds, if in me All hard­ness did not van­ish and give place Be­fore your courage, gen­tle­ness, and grace.

XLIV ” `Ah! were the cru­el statute less se­vere Against the stranger to these shores con­veyed! So should I not es­teem my death too dear A ran­som for thy wor­thi­er life were paid. But none is here so great, sir cav­alier, Nor of such puis­sance as to lend thee aid; And what thou ask­est, though a scanty grace, Were dif­fi­cult to com­pass in this place.

XLV ” `And yet will I en­deav­our to ob­tain For thee, be­fore thou per­ish, this con­tent; Though much, I fear, ’twill but aug­ment thy pain. And thee pro­tract­ed death but more tor­ment.’ `So I the ten en­counter,’ (said again El­banio), `I at heart, am con­fi­dent My­self to save, and en­emies to slay; Though made of iron were the whole ar­ray.’

XLVI “To this the youth­ful Alexan­dria nought Made an­swer, sav­ing with a piteous sigh; And from the con­fer­ence a bo­som brought, Gored with deep wounds, be­yond all rem­edy. To Oron­tea she re­paired, and wrought On her to will the stripling should not die, Should he dis­play such courage and such skill As with his sin­gle hand the ten to kill.

XLVII “Queen Oron­tea straight­way bade unite Her coun­cil, and be­spoke the as­sem­bled band: `It still be­hoves us place the prow­est wight Whom we can find, to guard our ports and strand. And, to dis­cov­er whom to take or slight, ‘Tis fit­ting that we prove the war­rior’s hand; Lest, to our loss, the elec­tion made be wrong, And we en­throne the weak and slay the strong.

XLVI­II ” `I deem it fit, if you the coun­sel shown Deem fit as well, in fu­ture to or­dain, That each up­on our coast by For­tune thrown, Be­fore he in the tem­ple shall be slain, Shall have the choice, in­stead of this, alone Bat­tle against ten oth­ers to main­tain; And if he con­quer, shall the port de­fend With oth­er com­rades, par­doned to that end.

XLIX ” `I say this, since to strive against our ten, It seems, that one im­pris­oned here will dare: Who, if he stands against so many men, By Heav­en, de­serves that we should hear his prayer; But if he rash­ly boasts him­self, again As worthi­ly due the pun­ish­ment should bear.’ Here Oron­tea ceased; on the oth­er side, To her the old­est of the dames replied.

L ” `The lead­ing cause, for which to en­ter­tain This in­ter­course with men we first agreed, Was not be­cause we, to de­fend this reign, Of their as­sis­tance stood in any need; For we have skill and courage to main­tain This of our­selves, and force, with­al, to speed. Would that we could in all as well avail With­out their suc­cour, nor suc­ces­sion fail!

LI ” `But since this may not be, we some have made (These few) par­tak­ers of our com­pa­ny; That, ten to one, we be not over­laid; Nor they pos­sess them of the sovereign­ty. Not that we for pro­tec­tion need their aid, But sim­ply to in­crease and mul­ti­ply. Than be their pow­ers to this sole fear ad­dressed, And be they slug­gards, idle for the rest.

LII ” `To keep among us such a puis­sant wight Our first de­sign would ren­der whol­ly vain. If one can singly slay ten men in fight, How many wom­en can he not re­strain? If our ten cham­pi­ons had pos­sessed such might, They the first day would have usurped the reign. To arm a hand more pow­er­ful than your own Is an ill method to main­tain the throne.

LI­II ” `Re­flect with­al, that if your pris­on­er speed So that he kill ten cham­pi­ons in the fray, A hun­dred wom­en’s cry, whose lords will bleed Be­neath his fal­chion, shall your ears dis­may. Let him not ’scape by such a mur­der­ous deed; But, if he would, pro­pound some oth­er way. — Yet if he of those ten sup­ply the place, And please a hun­dred wom­en, grant him grace.’

LIV “This was se­vere Artemia’s sen­ti­ment, (So was she named) and had her coun­sel weighed, El­banio to the tem­ple had been sent, To per­ish by the sac­ri­fi­cial blade. But Oron­tea, will­ing to con­tent Her daugh­ter, to the ma­tron an­swer made; And urged so many rea­sons, and so wrought, The yield­ing sen­ate grant­ed what she ought.

LV “El­banio’s beau­ty (for so fair to view Nev­er was any cav­alier be­side) So strong­ly works up­on the youth­ful crew, Which in that coun­cil sit the state to guide, That the opin­ion of the old­er few That like Artemia think, is set aside; And lit­tle lacks but that the as­sem­bled race Ab­solve El­banio by es­pe­cial grace.

LVI “To par­don him in fine the dames agreed: But, af­ter slay­ing his half-​score, and when He in the next as­sault as well should speech, Not with a hun­dred wom­en, but with ten; And, fur­nished to his wish with arms and steed, Next day he was re­leased from dun­geon-​den, And singly with ten war­riors matched in plain, Who by his arm suc­ces­sive­ly were slain.

LVII “He to new proof was put the fol­low­ing night, Against ten damsels naked and alone; When so suc­cess­ful was the stripling’s might, He took the ’say of all the troop, and won Such grace with Oron­tea, that the knight Was by the dame adopt­ed for her son; And from her Alexan­dria had to wife, With those whom he had proved in amorous strife.

LVI­II “And him she left with Alexan­dria, heir To this famed city, which from her was hight, So he and all who his suc­ces­sors were, Should guard the law which willed, what­ev­er wight, Con­duct­ed hith­er by his cru­el star, Up­on this mis­er­able land did light, Should have his choice to per­ish by the knife, Or singly with ten foes con­tend to strife.

LIX “And if he should dis­patch the men by day, At night should prove him with the fe­male crew; And if so for­tu­nate that in this play He proved again the con­queror, he, as due, The fe­male band, as prince and guide, should sway, And his ten con­sorts at his choice re­new: And reign with them, till oth­er should ar­rive Of stouter hand, and him of life de­prive.

LX “They for two thou­sand years nigh past away This us­age have main­tained, and yet main­tain The im­pi­ous rite; and rarely pass­es day But stranger wight is slaugh­tered in the fane. If he, El­banio-​like, ten foes as­say, (And such some­times is found) he oft is slain In the first charge: nor, in a thou­sand, one The oth­er feat, of which I spake, has done,

LXI “Yet some there are have done it, though so few, They may be num­bered on the fin­gers; one Of the vic­to­ri­ous cav­aliers, but who Reigned with his ten short time, was Argilon: For, smote by me, whom ill wind hith­er blew, The knight to his eter­nal rest is gone. Would I with him that day had filled a grave, Rather than in such scorn sur­vive a slave!

LXII “For amorous plea­sures, laugh­ter, game, and play, Which ev­er­more de­light the youth­ful breast; The gem, the pur­ple gar­ment, rich ar­ray, And in his city place be­fore the rest. Lit­tle, by Heav­en, the wretched man ap­pay Who of his lib­er­ty is dis­pos­sest: And not to have the pow­er to leave this shore To me seems shame­ful servi­tude and sore.

LXI­II “To know I wear away life’s glo­ri­ous spring In such ef­fem­inate and sloth­ful leisure Is to my trou­bled heart a con­stant sting, And takes away the taste of ev­ery plea­sure. Fame bears my kin­dred’s praise on out­stretched wing, Even to the skies; and hap­ly equal mea­sure I of the glo­ries of my blood might share If I unit­ed with my brethren were.

LX­IV “Me­thinks my fate does such in­ju­ri­ous deed By me, con­demned to servi­tude so base, As he who turns to grass the gen­er­ous steed To run amid the herd of mean­er race, Be­cause un­fit for war or wor­thi­er meed, Through blem­ish, or dis­ease of sight or pace. Nor hop­ing but by death, alas! to fly So vile a ser­vice, I de­sire to die.”

LXV Here Gui­do ceased to ad­dress the mar­tial peers, And cursed with­al the day, in high dis­dain, That he achieved o’er dames and cav­aliers The dou­ble vic­to­ry which be­stowed that reign. As­tolpho hides his name, and silent hears, Un­til to him by many a sign is plain That this Sir Gui­do is, as he had said, The is­sue of his kins­man Ay­mon’s bed.

LXVI Then cried: “The En­glish duke, As­tolpho, I Thy cousin am,” and clipt him round the waist, And in a kind­ly act of cour­tesy, Not with­out weep­ing, kist him and em­braced. Then, “Kins­man dear, thy birth to cer­ti­fy No bet­ter sign thy moth­er could have placed About thy neck. Enough! that sword of thine, And courage, vouch thee of our valiant line.”

LXVII Gui­do, who glad­ly would in oth­er place So near a kin have wel­comed, in dis­may Be­holds him here and with a mourn­ful face; Know­ing, if he him­self sur­vives the fray, As­tolpho will be doomed to slav­ery base, His fate de­ferred but till the fol­low­ing day; And he shall per­ish, if the duke is free: So that one’s good the oth­er’s ill shall be.

LXVI­II He grieves, as well, the oth­er cav­aliers Should through his means for ev­er cap­tive be; Nor, that he should, if slain, those mar­tial peers De­liv­er by his death from slav­ery. Since if Marphisa from one quick­sand clears The troop, yet these from oth­er fails to free, She will have won the vic­to­ry in vain; For they will be en­slaved, and she be slain.

LX­IX On the oth­er hand, the stripling’s age, in May Of youth, with cour­tesy and val­our fraught, Up­on the maid and com­rades with such sway, Touch­ing their breasts with love and pity, wrought That they of free­dom, for which he must pay The for­feit of his life, nigh loathed the thought; And if Marphisa him per­force must kill, She is re­solved as well her­self to spill.

LXX “Join thou with us,” she to Sir Gui­do cried, “And we from hence will sal­ly.” — “From with­in These walls to sal­ly” — Gui­do on his side An­swered, “Ne’er hope: With me you lose or win.” “– I fear not, I,” the mar­tial maid replied, “To ex­ecute what­ev­er I be­gin; Nor know what can se­cur­er path af­ford Than that which I shall open with my sword.

LXXI “Such proof of thy fair prowess have I made, With thee I ev­ery en­ter­prise would dare. To-​mor­row when about the pal­isade The crowds as­sem­bled in the cir­cus are, Let us on ev­ery side the mob in­vade, Whether they fly or for de­fence pre­pare; Then give the town to fire, and on their bed Of earth to wolf and vul­ture leave the dead.”

LXXII He: “Ready shalt thou find me in the strife To fol­low thee or per­ish at thy side: But let us hope not to es­cape with life. Enough, is vengeance somedeal sat­is­fied Ere death; for oft ten thou­sand, maid and wife, I in the place have wit­nessed; and, out­side, As many cas­tle, wall and port, de­fend. Nor know I cer­tain way from hence to wend.”

LXXI­II “And were there more (Marphisa made re­ply) Than Xerx­es led, our squadrons to op­pose, More than those rebel spir­its from the sky Cast out to dwell amid per­pet­ual woes, All in one day should by this weapon die, Wert thou with me, at least, not with my foes.” To her again, “No project but must fail, (Sir Gui­do said) I know, save this avail.”

LXXIV “This on­ly us can save, should it suc­ceed; This, which but now re­mem­bered I shall teach. To dames alone our laws the right con­cede To sal­ly, or set foot up­on the beach, And hence to one of mine in this our need Must I com­mit my­self, and aid be­seech; Whose love for me, by per­fect friend­ship tied, Has oft by bet­ter proof than this been tried.

LXXV “No less than me would she de­sire that I Should ’scape from slav­ery, so she went with me; And that, with­out her ri­val’s com­pa­ny, She of my lot should sole par­tak­er be. She bark or pin­nace, in the har­bour nigh, Shall bid, while yet ’tis dark, pre­pare for sea; Which shall await your sailors, rigged and yare For sail­ing, when they thith­er shall re­pair.

LXXVI “Be­hind me, in a sol­id band com­prest, Ye mer­chants, mariners and war­riors, who, Driv­en to this city, have set up your rest Be­neath this roof (for which my thanks are due) — You have to force your way with sted­fast breast, If ad­ver­saries in­ter­rupt our crew. ‘Tis thus I hope, by suc­cour of the sword, To clear a pas­sage through the cru­el horde.”

LXXVII “Do as thou wilt,” Marphisa made re­ply, “I of es­cape am con­fi­dent with­al: And like­li­er ’twere that by my hand should die The mar­tial race, en­com­passed by this wall, Than any one should ev­er see me fly, Or guess by oth­er sign that fears ap­pall. I would my pas­sage force in open day, And shame­ful in my sight were oth­er way.

LXXVI­II “I wot if I were for a wom­an known, Hon­our and place from wom­en I might claim, Here glad­ly en­ter­tained, and classed as one Hap­ly among their chiefs of high­est fame: But priv­ilege or favour will I none Un­shared by those with whom I hith­er came. Too base it were, did I de­part or free Re­main, to leave the rest in slav­ery.”

LXXIX These speech­es by Marphisa made, and more, Showed that what on­ly had re­strained her arm Was the re­spect she to the safe­ty bore Of the com­pan­ions whom her wrath might harm; By this alone with­held form tak­ing sore And sig­nal vengeance on the fe­male swarm. And hence she left in Gui­do’s care to shape What seemed the fittest means for their es­cape.

LXXX Sir Gui­do speaks that night with Alery (So the most faith­ful of his wives was hight) Nor needs long prayer to make the dame agree, Dis­posed al­ready to obey the knight. She takes a ship and arms the bark for sea, Stowed with her rich­est chat­tels for their flight; Feign­ing de­sign, as soon as dawn en­sues, To sail with her com­pan­ions on a cruise.

LXXXI She in­to Gui­do’s palace had be­fore Bid sword and spear and shield and cuirass bear; With the in­tent to fur­nish from this store, Mer­chants and sailors that half naked were. Some watch, and some re­pose up­on the floor, And rest and guard among each oth­er share; Oft mark­ing, still with har­ness on their backs, If rud­dy yet with light the ori­ent wax.

LXXXII Not yet from earth’s hard vis­age has the sun Lift­ed her veil of dim and dingy dye; Scarce­ly Ly­caon’s child, her fur­row done, Has turned about her ploughshare in the sky; When to the the­atre the wom­en run Who would the fear­ful bat­tle’s end es­py, As swarm­ing bees up­on their thresh­old clus­ter, Who bent on change of realm in springtide muster.

LXXXI­II With war­like trum­pet, drum, and sound of horn, The peo­ple make the land and welkin roar; Sum­mon­ing thus their chief­tain to re­turn, And end of un­fin­ished war­fare. Cov­ered o’er With arms stand Aquilant and Gryphon stern, And the re­doubt­ed duke from Eng­land’s shore. Marphisa, Du­do, San­sonet, and all The knights or foot­men har­boured in that hall.

LXXXIV Hence to de­scend to­wards the sea or port The way across the place of com­bat lies; Nor was there oth­er pas­sage, long or short. Sir Gui­do so to his com­pan­ions cries: And hav­ing ceased his com­rades to ex­hort, To do their best set forth in silent wise, And in the place ap­peared, amid the throng, Head of a squad above a hun­dred strong.

LXXXV To­ward the oth­er gate Sir Gui­do went, Hur­ry­ing his band, but, gath­ered far and nigh The mighty mul­ti­tude, for aye in­tent To smite, and clad in arms, when they de­scry The com­rades whom he leads, per­ceive his bent, And tru­ly deem he is about to fly. All in a thought be­take them to their bows, And at the por­tal part the knight op­pose.

LXXXVI Sir Gui­do and the cav­aliers who go Be­neath that cham­pi­on’s guid­ance, and be­fore The oth­ers bold Marphisa, were not slow To strike, and laboured hard to force the door. But such a storm of darts from ready bow, Deal­ing on all sides death or wound­ing sore, Was rained in fury on the troop for­lorn, They feared at last to en­counter skaith and scorn.

LXXXVII Of proof the corslet was each war­rior wore, Who with­out this would have had worse to fear: San­son­net’s horse was slain, and that which bore Marphisa: to him­self the En­glish peer Ex­claimed, “Why wait I longer? As if more My horn could ev­er suc­cour me than here. Since the sword steads not, I will make as­say If with my bu­gle I can clear the way.”

LXXXVI­II As he was cus­tomed in ex­trem­ity, He to his mouth ap­plied the bu­gle’s round; The wide world seemed to trem­ble, earth and sky, As he in air dis­charged the hor­rid sound. Such ter­ror smote the dames, that bent to fly, When in their ears the deaf­en­ing horn was wound, Not on­ly they the gate un­guard­ed left, But from the cir­cus reeled, of wit bereft.

LXXXIX As fam­ily, awaked in sud­den wise, Leaps from the win­dows and from lofty height, Per­il­ing life and limb, when in sur­prise They see, now near, the fire’s en­cir­cling light, Which had, while slum­ber sealed their heavy eyes, By lit­tle and by lit­tle waxed at night: Reck­less of life, thus each, im­pelled by dread, At sound of that ap­palling bu­gle fled.

XC Above, be­low, and here and there, the rout Rise in con­fu­sion and at­tempt to fly. At once, above a thou­sand swarm about Each en­trance, to each oth­er’s lett, and lie In heaps: from win­dow these, or stage with­out, Leap head­long; in the press these smoth­ered die. Bro­ken is many an arm, and many a head; And one lies crip­pled, and an­oth­er dead.

XCI Amid the mighty ru­in which en­sued, Cries pierce the very heav­ens on ev­ery part. Where’er the sound is heard, the mul­ti­tude, In pan­ic at the deaf­en­ing echo, start. When you are told that with­out hardi­hood Ap­pear the rab­ble, and of fee­ble heart, This need not more your mar­vel; for by na­ture The hare is ev­er­more a timid crea­ture.

XCII But of Marphisa what will be your thought, And Gui­do late so fu­ri­ous? — of the two Young sons of Olivi­er, that late­ly wrought Such deeds in hon­our of their lin­eage? who Late­ly a hun­dred thou­sand held as nought, And now, de­prived of courage, base­ly flew, As ring-​doves flut­ter and as coneys fly, Who hear some mighty noise re­sound­ing nigh.

XCI­II For so to friend as stranger, nox­ious are The pow­ers that in the en­chant­ed horn re­side. San­sonet, Gui­do, fol­low, with the pair Or brethren bold, Marphisa ter­ri­fied. Nor fly­ing, can they to such dis­tance fare, But that their ears are dinned. On ev­ery side As­tolpho, on his foam­ing cours­er borne, Lends loud­er breath to his en­chant­ed horn.

XCIV One sought the sea, and one the moun­tain-​top, One fled the hide her­self in for­est hoar; And this, who turned not once nor made a stop, Not for ten days her head­long flight for­bore: These from the bridge in that dread mo­ment drop, Nev­er to climb the riv­er’s mar­gin more. So tem­ple, house and square and street were drained, That nigh un­peo­pled the wide town re­mained.

XCV Marphisa, Gui­do, and the brethren two, With San­sonet­to, pale and trem­bling, hie To­wards the sea, and be­hind these the crew Of fright­ed mariners and mer­chants fly; And ‘twixt the forts, in bark, pre­pared with view To their es­cape, dis­cov­er Alery; Who in sore haste re­ceives the war­riors pale, And bids them ply their oars and make all sail.

XCVI The duke with­in and out the town had bear From the sur­round­ing hills to the sea-​side, And of its peo­ple emp­tied ev­ery street. All fly be­fore the deaf­en­ing sound, and hide: Many in pan­ic, seek­ing a re­treat, Lurk, in some place ob­scure and filthy stied; Many, not know­ing whith­er to re­pair, Plunge in the neigh­bour­ing sea, and per­ish there.

XCVII The duke ar­rives, seek­ing the friend­ly band, Whom he had hoped to find up­on the quay; He turns and gazes round the desert strand, And none is there — di­rects along the bay His eyes, and now, far dis­tant from the land, Be­holds the part­ing frigate un­der way. So that the pal­adin, for his es­cape — The ves­sel gone — must oth­er project shape.

XCVI­II Let him de­part! nor let it trou­ble you That he so long a road must beat alone; Where, nev­er with­out fear, man jour­neys through Wild payn­im coun­tries: dan­ger is there none, But what he with his bu­gle may es­chew, Whose dread ef­fect the En­glish duke has shown; And let his late com­pan­ions be our care, Who trem­bling to the beach had made re­pair.

XCIX They from that cru­el and en­san­guined ground To sea­ward, un­der all their can­vas, bore; And hav­ing gained such off­ing, that the sound Of that alarm­ing horn was heard no more, Un­wont­ed shame in­flict­ed such a wound, That all a face of burn­ing crim­son wore. One dares not eye the oth­er, and they stand With down­cast looks, a mute and mourn­ful band.

C Fixed on his course, the pi­lot pass­es by Cyprus and Rhodes, and ploughs the Aegean sea: Be­holds a hun­dred is­lands from him fly, And Malea’s fear­ful head­land; fanned by free And con­stant wind, sees van­ish from the eye The Greek Morea; round­ing Sici­ly, In­to the Tus­can sea his frigate veers, And, coast­ing Italy’s fair re­gion, steers:

CI Last ris­es Lu­na, where his fam­ily Is wait­ing his re­turn, the pa­tron hoar Gives thanks to God at hav­ing passed the sea With­out more harm, and makes the well-​known shore. Here, of­fer­ing pas­sage to their com­pa­ny, They find a mas­ter, ready to un­moor For France, and that same day his pin­nace climb; Thence waft­ed to Mar­seilles in lit­tle time.

CII There was not Bradamant, who used to sway The land, and had that city in her care, And who (if present there) to make some stay Would have com­pelled them by her cour­te­ous prayer. They dis­em­barked; and that same hour away Did bold Marphisa at a ven­ture fare; Bid­ding adieu to sal­vage Gui­do’s wife, And to the four, her com­rades in the strife:

CI­II Say­ing she deems un­fit­ting for a knight To fare in like great fel­low­ship; that so The star­lings and the doves in flock unite, And ev­ery beast who fears — the stag and doe; But hawk and ea­gle, that in oth­er’s might Put not their trust, for ev­er singly go; And li­on, bear, and tyger, roam alone, Who fear no prowess greater than their own.

CIV But none with her opine, and, in the lack Of a com­pan­ion, singly must she fare, So then, alone and friend­less, she a track Un­couth pur­sues, and through a wood­ed lair. Gryphon the white and Aquilant the black Take road more beat­en with the oth­er pair; And on the fol­low­ing day a cas­tle see, With­in which they are har­boured cour­te­ous­ly.

CV Cour­te­ous­ly I, in out­ward show, would say; For soon the con­trary was made ap­pear. Since he, the castel­lain, who with dis­play Of kind­ness shel­tered them and cour­te­ous cheer, The night en­su­ing took them as they lay Couched in their beds, se­cure and void of fear. Nor from the snare would he his pris­on­ers loose, Till they had sworn to ob­serve an evil use.

CVI But I will first pur­sue the mar­tial maid, Ere more of these, fair sir, I shall pro­claim. Be­yond the Durence, Rhone, and Saone she strayed, And to the foot of sun­ny moun­tain came; And there ap­proach­ing in black gown ar­rayed, Be­side a tor­rent, saw an an­cient dame; Who with long jour­ney weak, and wea­ried sore, Ap­peared, but pined by melan­choly more.

CVII This was the bel­dam who had wont to ply Serv­ing the rob­bers in the cav­erned mount; Whith­er stern Jus­tice sent (that they might die By that good pal­adin) Anglante’s count. The aged har­ri­dan, for cause which I To you shall in an­oth­er place re­count, Now many days by path ob­scure had flown, Still fear­ing lest her vis­age should be known.

CVI­II The sem­blance now of for­eign cav­alier She in Marphisa saw, in arms and vest; And hence she flies not her, though wont to fear, (As be­ing na­tives of that land) the rest; — Nay, with se­cu­ri­ty and open cheer, Stops at the ford the damsel to ar­rest: Stops at the ford — where that old bel­dam meets Marphisa, and with fair en­counter greets.

CIX And next im­plored the maid, she of her grace Would bear her on the croupe to the oth­er shore. Marphisa, who was come of gen­tle race, The hag with her across the tor­rent bore; And is con­tent to bear, till she can place In a se­cur­er road the bel­dam hoar, Clear of a spa­cious mar­ish: as its end They see a cav­alier to­wards them wend.

CX In shin­ing ar­mour and in fair ar­ray, The war­rior rode on sad­dle rich­ly wrought To­wards the riv­er, and up­on his way With him a sin­gle squire and damsel brought. Of pass­ing beau­ty was the la­dy gay, But lit­tle pleas­ing was her sem­blance haught; All overblown with in­so­lence and pride, Wor­thy the cav­alier who was her guide.

CXI He of Ma­ga­nza was a count, who bore The la­dy with him (Pin­abel­lo hight): The same who Bradamant, some months be­fore, Had plunged in­to a hol­low cave in spite. Those many sobs, those burn­ing sighs and sore, Those tears which had nigh quenched the war­rior’s sight, — All for the damsel were, now at his side; And then by that false necro­mancer stied.

CXII But when the mag­ic tow­er up­on the hill Was razed, the dwelling of At­lantes hoar, And ev­ery one was free to rove at will, Through Bradamant’s good deed and vir­tu­ous lore, The damsel, who had been com­pli­ant still With the de­sires of Pin­abel be­fore, Re­joined him, and now jour­ney­ing in a round With him, from cas­tle was to cas­tle bound.

CXI­II As wan­ton and ill-​cus­tomed, when she spies Marphisa’s aged charge ap­proach­ing near, She can­not rein her saucy tongue, but plies Here, in her petu­lance, with laugh and jeer. Marphisa haught, un­wont in any wise Out­rage from what­so­ev­er part to hear, Makes an­swer to the dame, in an­gry tone, That hand­somer than her she deems the crone.

CX­IV And that she this would prove up­on her knight With pact that she might strip the bon­ni­bell Of gown and pal­frey, if, o’erthrown in fight, Her cham­pi­on from his good­ly cours­er fell. — In si­lence to have over­past the slight Would have been sin and shame in Pin­abel, Who for short an­swer seized his shield and spear, And wheeled, and drove at her in fierce ca­reer.

CXV Marphisa grasped a mighty lance, and thrust, En­coun­ter­ing him, at Pin­abel­lo’s eyes; And stretched him so as­tound­ed in the dust, That mo­tion­less an hour the war­rior lies. Marphisa, now vic­to­ri­ous in the just, Gave or­ders to strip off the glo­ri­ous guise And or­na­ments where­with the maid was drest, And with the spoils her an­cient crone in­vest;

CXVI And willed that she should don the youth­ful weed, Be­di­zened at the haughty damsel’s cost; And took away as well the good­ly steed Which her had thith­er borne, and — bent to post On her old track — with her the hag will speed, Who seems most hideous when adorned the most. Three days the te­dious road the cou­ple beat, With­out ad­ven­ture need­ful to re­peat.

CXVII On the fourth day they met a cav­alier, Who came in fury gal­lop­ing alone. If you the stranger’s name de­sire to hear, I tell you ’twas Zerbino, a king’s son, Of beau­ty and of worth ex­am­ple rare, Now grieved and an­gered, as un­venged of one, Who a great act of cour­tesy, which fain The war­rior would have done, had ren­dered vain.

CXVI­II Vain­ly the young Zerbino, through the glade, Had chased that man of his, who this de­spite Had done him, who him­self so well con­veyed Away and took such ‘van­tage in his flight, So hid by wood and mist, which over­laid The hori­zon and be­dimmed the morn­ing-​light, That he es­caped Zerbino’s grasp, and lay Con­cealed un­til his wrath was past away.

CX­IX Zerbino laughed par­force, when he de­scried That bel­dam’s face, though he was full of rage; For too ill-​sort­ed seemed her vest of pride With her foul vis­age, more de­formed by age; And to the proud Marphisa, at her side The prince, ex­claimed, “Sir war­rior, you are sage, In hav­ing cho­sen damsel of a sort, Whom none, I ween, will grudge you should es­cort.”

CXX Old­er than Sibyl seemed the bel­dam hoar, (As far as from her wrin­kles one might guess), And in the youth­ful or­na­ments she wore, Looked like an ape which men in mock­ery dress; And now ap­pears more foul, as an­gered sore, While rage and wrath her kin­dled eyes ex­press. For none can do a wom­an worse de­spite Than to pro­claim her old and foul to sight.

CXXI To have sport of him — as she had — an air Of wrath the maid as­sumed up­on her part, And to the prince, “By Heav­en, more pass­ing fair Is this my la­dy than thou cour­te­ous art,” Ex­claimed in an­swer; “though I am aware What thou hast ut­tered comes not from thy heart. Thou wilt not own her beau­ty; a de­vice Put on to masque thy sovereign cow­ardice.

CXXII “And of what stamp would be that cav­alier Who found such fair and youth­ful dame alone, With­out pro­tec­tion, in the for­est drear, Nor sought to make the love­ly weft his own?” — “So well she sorts with thee,” replied the peer, ” `Twere ill that she were claimed by any one: Nor I of her would thee in any wise De­prive; God rest thee mer­ry with thy prize!

CXXI­II “But would thou prove what is my chival­ry, On oth­er ground I to thy wish in­cline; Yet deem me not of such per­ver­si­ty As to tilt with thee for this prize of thine. Or fair or foul, let her re­main thy fee; I would not, I, such ami­ty dis­join. Well are ye paired, and safe­ly would I swear That thou as valiant art as she is fair.”

CXXIV To him Marphisa, “Thou in thy de­spite Shalt try to bear from me the dame away. I will not suf­fer that so fair a sight Thou shouldst be­hold, nor seek to gain the prey.” To her the prince, “I know not where­fore wight Should suf­fer pain and per­il in af­fray, Striv­ing for vic­to­ry, where, for his pains, The vic­tor loss­es, and the van­quished gains.”

CXXV “If this con­di­tion please not, oth­er course Which ill thou canst refuse, I of­fer thee,” (Marphisa cried): “If thou shalt me un­horse In this our tour­ney, she re­mains with me: But if I win, I give her thee par­force. Then prove we now who shall with­out her be. Premised, if los­er, thou shalt be her guide, Wher­ev­er it may please the dame to ride.”

CXXVI “And be it so,” Zerbino cried, and wheeled Swift­ly his foam­ing cours­er for the shock, And ris­ing in his stir­rups scow­ered the field, Firm in his seat, and smote, with lev­elled stock, For sur­er aim, the damsel in mid-​shield; But she sate sted­fast as a met­al rock, And at the war­rior’s mori­on thrust so well, She clean out-​bore him sense­less from the sell.

CXXVII Much grieved the prince, to whom in oth­er fray The like mis­for­tune had not chanced be­fore, Who had un­horsed some thou­sands in his day: Now shamed, he thought for ev­er. Trou­bled sore, And mute long space up­on the ground he lay, And, when ’twas rec­ol­lect­ed, grieved the more, That he had promised, and that he was bound, To ac­com­pa­ny the hag where’er she wound.

CXXVI­II Turn­ing about to him the vic­toress cried, Laugh­ing, “This la­dy I to thee present, And the more beau­ty is in her de­scried, The more that she is thine I am con­tent, Now in my place her cham­pi­on and her guide. But do not thou thy plight­ed faith re­pent, So that thou fail, as promised, to at­tend The dame, wher­ev­er she may please to wend.”

CXXIX With­out await­ing an­swer, to ca­reer She spurred her horse, and van­ished in the wood. Zerbino, deem­ing her a cav­alier, Cried to the crone, “By whom am I sub­dued?” And, know­ing ‘twould be poi­son to his ear, And that it would in­flame his an­gered blood, She in re­ply, “It was a damsel’s blow Which from thy lofty sad­dle laid thee low.

CXXX “She, for her match­less force, de­served­ly Usurps from cav­alier the sword and lance; And even from the east is come to try Her strength against the pal­adins of France.” Not on­ly was his cheek of crim­son dye, Such shame Zerbino felt as his mis­chance, Lit­tle was want­ing (so his blush­es spread) But all the arms he wore had glowed as red.

CXXXI He mounts, and blames him­self in an­gry wise, In that he had no bet­ter kept his seat. With­in her­self the bel­dam laughs, and tries The Scot­tish war­rior more to sting and heat. To him for promised con­voy she ap­plies; And he, who knows that there is no re­treat, Stands like tired cours­er, who in pen­sive fit, Hangs down his ears, con­trolled by spur and bit.

CXXXII And, sigh­ing deeply, cries, in his de­spair, “Fell For­tune, with what change dost thou re­pay My loss! she who was fairest of the fair, Who should be mine, by thee is snatched away! And think­est thou the evil to re­pair With her whom thou hast giv­en to me this day? Rather than make like ill ex­change, less cross It were to un­der­go a to­tal loss.

CXXXI­II “Her, who for virtue and for beau­teous form Was nev­er equalled, nor will ev­er be, Thou on the rocks hast wrecked, in win­try storm, As food for fowls and fish­es of the sea; And her who should have fed the earth-​bred worm Pre­served be­yond her date, some ten or score Of years, to ha­rass and tor­ment me more.”

CXXXIV So spake Zerbino, and like grief dis­plaid, In his de­spair­ing words and wo­ful mien, For such an odi­ous ac­qui­si­tion made, As he had suf­fered when he lost his queen. The aged wom­an now, from what he said, Though she be­fore Zerbino had not seen, Per­ceived ’twas him of whom, in the thieves’ hold, Is­abel of Gal­li­cia erst had told.

CXXXV If you re­mem­ber what was said be­fore, This was the hag who ’scaped out of the cave, Where Is­abel­la, who had wound­ed sore Zerbino’s heart, was long de­tained a slave; Who oft had told how she her na­tive shore Had left, and, launch­ing up­on ocean’s wave Her frigate, had been wrecked by wind and swell Up­on the rocky shal­lows near Rochelle.

CXXXVI And she to her Zerbino’s good­ly cheer And gen­tle fea­tures had pour­trayed so well, That the hag hear­ing him, and now more near, Let­ter her eyes up­on his vis­age dwell, Dis­cerned it was the youth for whom, whilere, Had grieved at heart the pris­oned Is­abel; Whose loss she in the cav­ern more de­plored, Than be­ing cap­tive to the mur­der­ous horde.

CXXXVII The bel­dam, hear­ing what in rage and grief Zerbino vents, per­ceives the youth to be De­ceived, and cheat­ed by the false be­lief That Is­abel had per­ished in the sea; And though she might have giv­en the prince re­lief, Know­ing the truth, in her per­ver­si­ty What would have made him joy­ful she con­cealed, And on­ly what would cause him grief re­vealed.

CXXXVI­II “Hear, you that are so proud,” (the hag pur­sues) “And flout me with such in­so­lence and scorn, You would en­treat me fair to have the news I know of her whose time­less death you mourn; But to be stran­gled would I rather choose, And be in­to a thou­sand pieces torn. Where­as if you had made me kinder cheer, Hap­ly from me the se­cret might you hear.”

CXXXIX As the dog’s rage is quick­ly overblown, Who flies the ap­proach­ing rob­ber to ar­rest, If the thief prof­fer piece of bread or bone, Of of­fer oth­er lure which likes him best; As read­ily Zerbino to the crone Hum­bled him­self, and burned to know the rest; Who, in the hints of the old wom­an, read That she had news of her he mourned as dead.

CXL And with more win­ning mien to her ap­plied, And her did sup­pli­cate, en­treat, con­jure, By men and gods, the truth no more to hide, Did she be­nign or evil lot en­dure. The hard and per­ti­na­cious crone replied, “Nought shalt thou hear, thy com­fort to as­sure. Is­abel has not yield­ed up her breath, But lives a life she would ex­change for death.

CXLI “She, since thou heardest of her des­tiny, With­in few days, has fall­en in­to the pow­er Of more than twen­ty. If re­stored to thee, Think now, if thou hast hope to crop her flow­er.” — “Curst hag, how well thou shapest thy his­to­ry, Yet know­est it is false! Her vir­gin dow­er Se­cure from bru­tal wrong, would none in­vade, Though in the pow­er of twen­ty were the maid.”

CXLII Ques­tion­ing of the maid, he when and where She saw her, vain­ly asked the bel­dam hoar, Who, ev­er restive to Zerbino’s prayer, To what she had re­hearsed would add no more. The prince in the be­gin­ning spoke her fair, And next to cut her throat in fury swore. But prayers and men­aces alike were weak; Nor could he make the hideous bel­dam speak.

CXLI­II At length Zerbino to his tongue gave rest, Since speak­ing to the wom­an boot­ed nought; Scarce­ly his heart found room with­in his breast, Such dread sus­pi­cion had her sto­ry wrought. He to find Is­abel­la was so pressed, Her in the midst of fire he would have sought; But could not hur­ry more than was al­lowed By her his con­voy, since he so had vowed.

CXLIV They hence, by strange and soli­tary way, Rove, as the bel­dam does her will be­to­ken, Nor climb­ing, nor de­scend­ing hill, sur­vey Each oth­er’s face, nor any word is spo­ken. But when the sun up­on the mid­dle day Had turned his back, their si­lence first was bro­ken By cav­alier en­coun­tered in their way: What fol­lowed the en­su­ing strain will say.