Orlando Furioso

CANTO 27

AR­GU­MENT By good Rogero and those payn­ims three De­feat­ed, Charle­magne to Paris flies. Al­ready all, through­out their chival­ry, Are mad with spite and ha­tred; jars arise, And strife; and means to still their en­mi­ty Their sovereign is un­able to de­vise. From him de­parts the monarch of Argi­er, Who is re­ject­ed of his la­dy dear.

I A wom­an for the most part rea­sons best Up­on a sud­den mo­tion, and un­taught; For with that spe­cial grace the sex is blest, ‘Mid those so many gifts, where­with ’tis fraught; But man, of a less nim­ble wit pos­sest, Is ill at coun­sel, save, with sober thought, He ru­mi­nates there­on, con­tent to spend Care, time and trou­ble to ma­ture his end.

II That seemed good coun­sel, but was ill in­deed Of Malagi­gi’s, as be­fore was said; Al­beit he so res­cued in his need His cousin Richard­et, with odds o’er­laid, When from the payn­im monar­chs him he freed By ready de­mon, who his hest obeyed; For sure he nev­er deemed they should be borne, Where they would work the Chris­tian army scorn.

III Had he some lit­tle prize for coun­sel stayed, (We with the same suc­cess may well sup­pose) He to his cousin might have fur­nished aid, Yet brought not on the Chris­tian host their foes: That evil sprite he might as well have made, Him, who em­bod­ied in the pal­frey goes, East­ward or west, so far that la­dy bear, That France should hear no fur­ther of the pair.

IV So the two lovers, fol­low­ing her who flies, To oth­er place than Paris might be brought: But this calami­ty was a sur­prise On Malagi­gi, through his lit­tle thought; And fiendish mal­ice, ban­ished from the skies, Which ev­er blood and fire and rav­age sought, Guid­ed them by that way to Charles’ dis­as­ter; Left to his choice by him, the wiz­ard mas­ter.

V The way­ward fiend who makes that pal­frey ramp Bears off the fright­ed Do­ral­ice amain; Nor riv­er nor yet yawn­ing ditch, or swamp, Wood, rock, or rugged cliff, the steed re­strain; Till, travers­ing the French and En­glish camp, And oth­er squadrons of the min­gled train, Be­neath the holy flag of Christ ar­raid, He to Grana­da’s king the fair con­veyed.

VI The Sarzan and the Tar­tar the first day That roy­al damsel a long while pur­sue; Be­cause her dis­tant form they yet sur­vey; But fi­nal­ly they lose that la­dy’s view; When, like a ly­me-​dog, whom the hunters lay On hare or roe­buck’s trail, the valiant two Fol­low up­on her track, nor halt, till told That she is har­boured in her fa­ther’s hold.

VII Guard thy­self, Charles: for, lo! against thee blown Is such a storm, that I no refuge see: Nor these re­doubt­ed monar­chs come alone, But those of Ser­icane and Cir­cassy; While For­tune, who would probe thee to the bone, Has tak­en those two shin­ing stars from thee, Who kept thee by their wis­dom and their light; And thou re­mainest blind and wrapt in night.

VI­II ‘Tis of the valiant cousins I would speak: Of these, Or­lan­do of his wit bereft, Naked, in sun or show­er, by plain or peak, Wan­ders about the world, a help­less weft; And he, in wis­dom lit­tle less to seek, Ri­nal­do, in thy per­il thee has left; And, for in Paris-​town she is not found, In search of his An­gel­ica is bound.

IX A cun­ning, old en­chanter him de­ceived, As in the out­let of my tale was said: De­lud­ed by a phan­tom, he be­lieved An­gel­ica was with Or­lan­do fled; And hence with jeal­ousy, at heart, ag­grieved (Lover ne’er suf­fered worse) to Paris sped; Whence he, as soon as he ap­peared at court, By chance, was named to Britain to re­sort.

X Now, the field won, where­in with mick­le fame He drove King Agra­mant his works be­hind, To Paris yet again the war­rior came, Searched con­vent, tow­er, and house, and, save con­fined ‘Twixt sol­id walls or columns be the dame, Her will the rest­less lover sure­ly find: Nor her nor yet Or­lan­do he de­scries, So forth in the de­sire to seek them hies.

XI Her to Anglantes or to Bra­va brought, He deemed the Count en­joyed in mirth and play; And vain­ly, here and there, that damsel sought, Nor here nor there, de­scried the long-​sought prey. To Paris he re­paired again, in thought The pal­adin re­turn­ing to way­lay; Be­cause he deemed he could not rove at large With­out that Town, but on some spe­cial charge.

XII With­in he takes a day or two’s re­pose; And, when he finds Or­lan­do comes not there, Again to Bra­va and Anglantes goes In­quir­ing tid­ings of the roy­al fair; Nor, whether morn­ing dawns or noon­tide glows, — Nor night nor day — his weary steed does spare; Nor once — but twice a hun­dred times — has run The self­same course, by light of moon or sun.

XI­II But the an­cient foe, de­lud­ed by whose say, To the for­bid­den fruit Eve raised her hand, Turned his wan eyes on Charle­magne one day, When he the good Ri­nal­do ab­sent scanned; And see­ing what foul rout and dis­ar­ray Might at that time be giv­en to Charles’s band, Of all the Sara­cens the choice and flow­er Mar­shalled in arms against the Chris­tian pow­er.

XIV King Sac­ripant and King Gradas­so (who Whilere com­pan­ion­ship in war had made, When from At­lantes’ palace fled the two) To­geth­er to unite their arms, in aid Of roy­al Agra­mant’s be­lea­guered crew, And where through un­known lands the war­riors hied, Made smooth the way, and served them as a guide.

XV Thith­er an­oth­er fiend that ruth­less foe Bade Rodomont and Man­dri­car­do bear Through ways, by which his com­rade was not slow With the af­fright­ed Do­ral­ice to fare: A third, lest they their en­ter­prize forego, Rogero and Marphisa has in care: But their con­duc­tor jour­neys not so fast; And hence that mar­tial pair ar­rives the last.

XVI Lat­er by half an hour, against their foes, So matched, Rogero and Marphisa speed; Be­cause the sable an­gel, who his blows Aimed at the bands that held the Chris­tian creed, Pro­vid­ed, that the con­test which arose About that horse, his work should not im­pede; Which had again been kin­dled, had the twain, Rodomont and Rogero, met again.

XVII The first four ride un­til them­selves they find Where the be­siegers and be­sieged they view; And see the ban­ners shak­ing in the wind, And the can­ton­ments of those armies two. Here they short coun­sel took, and next opined, In spite of Charle­magne’s be­lea­guer­ing crew, To car­ry speedy suc­cour to their liege, And res­cue roy­al Agra­mant from siege.

XVI­II Where thick­est camped lay Charles’s host, they spurred, Clos­ing their files against the Chris­tian foe. “Afric and Spain!” is the as­sailants’ word, Whom at all points the Franks for payn­ims know. — “To arms, to arms!” through­out their camp is heard: But first is felt the Moor­ish sabre’s blow: Even on the rear-​guard falls the venge­ful stroke, Not charged alone, but rout­ed, beat and broke.

XIX The Chris­tian host through­out is over­thrown, And how they know not, in tu­mul­tuous wise; And that it is a wont­ed in­sult done By Switzer or by Gas­con, some sur­mise; But — since the rea­son is to most un­known — Each sev­er­al na­tion to its stan­dard flies, This to the drum, that to the trum­pet’s sound, And shriek and shout from earth to heav­en re­dound.

XX All armed is Charle­magne, ex­cept his head, And, girt with pal­adins, his faith­ful stay, Ar­rived de­mand­ing what alarm has bred Dis­or­der in his host and dis­ar­ray; And stopt with men­ace this or that who fled, And many fugi­tives, up­on their way, Some with maimed face, breast, arm, or hand, es­pied, And some with head or throat with life-​blood dyed.

XXI Ad­vanc­ing, he on earth saw many more, Or rather in a lake of crim­son laid, Hor­ri­bly wel­ter­ing in their own dark gore, Be­yond the leech’s and ma­gi­cian’s aid; And busts dis­sev­ered from the heads they bore, And legs and arms — a cru­el show — sur­veyed; And, from the first can­ton­ments to the last, Saw slaugh­tered men on all sides as he past.

XXII Where the small band ad­vances in such wise, De­serv­ing well eter­nal praise to gain, Vouch­ing their deeds, a long-​drawn fur­row lies, A sig­nal record of their might and main. His army’s cru­el slaugh­ter, with sur­prise, Anger and rage, is viewed by Charle­magne. So he whose shat­tered walls have felt its force, Through­out his man­sion tracks the light­ning’s course.

XXI­II Not to the ram­parts of the payn­im crew Of Agra­mant as yet had pierced this aid, When, on the fur­ther side, these oth­er two, Rogero and Marphisa, thith­er made. When, once or twice, that wor­thy pair a view Have tak­en of the ground, and have sur­veyed The read­iest way as­sis­tance to af­ford, They swift­ly move in suc­cour of their lord.

XXIV As when we spark to load­ed mine ap­ply, Through the long fur­row, filled with sable grain, So fast the fu­ri­ous wild­fire darts, that eye Pur­sues the progress of the flash with pain; And as dire ru­in fol­lows, and from high, The loos­ened rock and sol­id bas­tion rain, So bold Rogero and Marphisa rush To bat­tle, so the Chris­tian squadrons crush.

XXV Front and askance, the as­sailants smote, and low On earth heads, arms, and sev­ered shoul­ders lay, Where’er the Chris­tian squadrons were too slow To free the path and break their close ar­ray. Whoe’er has seen the pass­ing tem­pest blow, And of the hill or val­ley, in its way, One por­tion rav­age and an­oth­er leave, May so their course amid that host con­ceive.

XXVI Many who had es­caped by quick re­treat, Rodomont and those oth­er fu­ri­ous three, Thank God that he had giv­en them legs and feet, Where­with to fly from that calami­ty; And from the Child and damsel new de­feat En­counter, while with end­long course they flee: As man, no mat­ter if he stands or run, Seeks vain­ly his pre­des­tined doom to shun.

XXVII Who ’scape one per­il, in­to oth­er fly, And pay the penal­ty of flesh and blood; So, by the teeth of dog, is wont to die The fox, to­geth­er with her in­fant brood, By one who dwells her an­cient cav­ern nigh Un­earthed, and with a thou­sand blows pur­sued; When from some un­sus­pect­ed place, that foe Has filled with fire and smoke the den be­low.

XXVI­II Marphisa and the Child, of dan­ger clear, En­ter the payn­im ram­parts; and, with eyes Up­turned, the Sara­cens, with hum­ble cheer, Thank Heav­en for the suc­cess of that em­prize: The pal­adins no longer are their fear; The mean­est Moor a hun­dred Franks de­fies; And ’tis re­solved, with­out re­pose, again To drench with Chris­tian blood the thirsty plain.

XXIX At once a formidable larum rose; Horns, drums, and shrilling clar­ions filled the skies; And the wind ruf­fles, as it comes and goes, Ban­ner and gon­falon of var­ious dyes. The Ger­mans and the war­like Bre­tons close; Ranged on the oth­er part, in mar­tial wise, Ital­ians, En­glish, French, were seen, and through Those armies fu­ri­ous war blazed forth anew.

XXX The force of the re­doubt­ed Rodomont, And that of Agri­can’s in­fu­ri­ate son, That of Rogero, valiant’s co­pi­ous font, Gradas­so’s, so renowned for tro­phies won, The mar­tial maid, Marphisa’s fear­less front, And might of Sac­ripant, ex­celled by none, Made Charles up­on Saint John and Denys call, And fly for shel­ter to his Paris wall.

XXXI Of fierce Marphisa and her bold al­lies The un­con­quered dar­ing and the won­drous might, Sir, was not of a na­ture — of a guise — To be con­ceived, much less de­scribed aright: The num­ber slaugh­tered hence may you sur­mise! What cru­el blow King Charles sus­tained in fight! Add to these war­riors of il­lus­tri­ous name, More than one Moor, with Fer­rau, known to Fame.

XXXII Many through reck­less haste were drowned in Seine, For all too nar­row was the bridge’s floor, An wished, like Icarus, for wings in vain, Hav­ing grim death be­hind them and be­fore, Save Oliv­er, and Ogi­er hight the Dane, The pal­adins are pris­on­ers to the Moor: Wound­ed be­neath his bet­ter shoul­der fled The first, that oth­er with a bro­ken head.

XXXI­II And. like Or­lan­do and Duke Ay­mon’s son, Had faith­ful Brandi­mart thrown up the game, Charles had from Paris in­to ex­ile gone, If he had scaped alive so fierce a flame. Brandi­mart does his best, and when ’tis done, Yields to the storm: Thus For­tune, fick­le dame, Now smiles up­on the payn­im monarch, who Be­sieges roy­al Charle­magne anew.

XXXIV From earth be­neath the wid­ow’s out­cry swells, Min­gled with el­der’s and with or­phan’s prayer, In­to the pure serene, where Michael dwells, Ris­ing above this dim and trou­bled air; And to the blest archangel loud­ly tells, How the de­vour­ing wolf and raven tear His faith­ful En­glish, French, and Ger­man train, Whose slaugh­tered bod­ies over­spread the plain.

XXXV Red blushed the blessed an­gel, who be­lieved He ill obe­di­ence to his lord had paid; And, in his anger, deemed him­self de­ceived By the per­fid­ious Dis­cord and be­trayed: He his Cre­ator’s or­der had re­ceived To stir the Moors to strife, nor had obeyed; Had rather in their eyes who marked the event, Ap­peared through­out to thwart his high in­tent.

XXXVI As ser­vant faith­ful to his lord, and more In love than mem­ory strong, who finds that he Has that for­got­ten which at his heart-​core, As pre­cious as his life and soul should be, Hastes to re­pair his er­ror, nor be­fore He mend that fault, again his lord will see, So not to God St. Michael will as­cend Un­til he has achieved his holy end.

XXXVII Again he to that monastery flew, Where whilom he had Dis­cord seen; and there Seat­ed in chap­ter sees her, while anew Their year­ly of­fi­cers elect­ed are, She tak­ing huge de­light those friers to view, That at each oth­er hurled their books of prayer. His hand with­in her locks the archangel twists, And deals her end­less scathe with feet and fists.

XXXVI­II On her he next a cross’s han­dle broke; Where­with her back, and arms, and head he plies: His mer­cy with loud voice the wretch be­spoke, And hugged that an­gel’s knees with sup­pli­ant cries. Michael sus­pends not the aveng­ing stroke Till hunt­ed to the Moor­ish camp she flies, Then thus: “Be­lieve worse vengeance yet in store, If I be­yond these lines be­hold thee more.”

XXXIX Al­beit in back and arms all over shent Was Dis­cord by that an­gel, in her fear Of suf­fer­ing yet again such chas­tise­ment, Such hor­rid fury and such blows se­vere, She speed­ily to take her bel­lows went, And, adding food to what she lit whilere, And set­ting oth­er ready piles afire, Kin­dled in many hearts a blaze of ire;

XL And good Rogero (she in­flames them so) With Rodomont and Man­dri­car­do fares To Agra­mant; and all (since now the foe The payn­ims pressed no more, the van­tage theirs) To him the seed of their dis­sen­sions show, And what the bit­ter pro­duce which it bears: Then to the judg­ment of the king re­fer Who first in list­ed field his claim should stir.

XLI As well Marphisa to Troy­ano’s son, Re­lates her case, and will con­clude the fray Which with the Tar­tar king she had be­gun, Be­cause by him pro­voked to that as­say; Nor will she yield her place to any one, No, not a sin­gle hour, yet less a day; But with loud in­stances main­tains her right With Man­dri­car­do first to wage the fight.

XLII To have the first pos­ses­sion of the field No less renowned king Rodomont con­tend­ed, Which he, the African ar­ray to shield, Had in­ter­rupt­ed and till now sus­pend­ed. Rogero to King Agra­mant ap­pealed, As hav­ing borne too long, though sore of­fend­ed, That Rodomont form him de­tained his horse, Nor yet would meet him first in mar­tial course.

XLI­II The Tar­tar king, for more per­plex­ity, De­nied on any ground Rogero’s right The bear­er of the white-​winged bird to be; And was so pass­ing wood with wrath and spite, That, if to this those oth­ers would agree, He would at once those sev­er­al quar­rels fight; And so those oth­ers would as well have done, If Agra­mant’s con­sent they could have won.

XLIV King Agra­mant, with prayer and king­ly word, Had will­ing­ly ap­peased that jar­ring crew; But since the foes were deaf to all ac­cord, Nor would as­sent to peace or truce anew, Con­sid­ered how at least he might af­ford The field of each of them in or­der due; And, as the best re­solve, at last de­creed, Each should by lot pos­sess the list­ed mead.

XLV Four lots the monarch bade pre­pare, which done, This “Rodomont and Man­dri­car­do” said; “Rogero and Man­dri­car­do” were in one; In one, “Rogero and Rodomont” were read; That “Man­dri­car­do and Marphisa” run: Next, as the fick­le god­dess, For­tune, led, The lots are drawn, and in the first ap­pear The Tar­tar king and sovereign of Argi­er.

XLVI Rogero and Man­dri­car­do for that play Were next; Rogero and Rodomont were third; Marphisa’s lot and Mardri­car­do’s lay At bot­tom; whence the dame was deeply stirred; Nor young Rogero seems a whit more gay: Who knows the prowess of those two pre­ferred Will noth­ing in the list­ed com­bat leave For him or for Marphisa to achieve.

XLVII There lies a place, of Paris lit­tle wide, Cov­er­ing a mile or some­what less, and round; Like an­cient the­atre, on ev­ery side, En­com­past by a tall and sol­id mound; With cas­tle whilom was it for­ti­fied, Which sword and fire had lev­elled with the ground. The Parme­san like cir­cle does sur­vey, When­ev­er he to Bor­go wends his way.

XLVI­II In this place is pre­pared the list­ed mead, Which pal­isades of lit­tle height in­close; A square, of just pro­por­tions for that need, With two ca­pa­cious gates, as us­age goes. The day on which to com­bat have agreed Those valiant knights, who will not balk their foes, Be­side the pal­isades, to left and right, Fac­ing each en­trance, are pavil­ions pight.

XLIX In that, which looks to­wards the west­ern sun, Is lodged the gi­ant monarch of Argi­er; And him as­sist his ser­pent-​hide to don Bold Fer­rau and Cir­cas­sia’s cav­alier. Gradas­so and the puis­sant Fal­siron, In that which fronts the morn­ing hemi­sphere, Clothe with their hands, in Tro­jan plate and chain, The good suc­ces­sor of King Agri­cane.

L High on a throne of am­ple state ap­peared Agra­mant and Mar­sil­ius; next in place Were Stordi­lane and all the chiefs, revered Through­out the squadrons of the payn­im race. Hap­py was he who found him­self up­reared On mound or tree, above that lev­el space. Great was the throng, and round the pal­isade On ev­ery side the ed­dy­ing peo­ple swayed.

LI Were seat­ed with the Queen of fair Castille Queens, princess­es, and dames of no­ble strain, From Ar­ragon, Grana­da, and Seville, And At­las’ columns; and amid the train As­sem­bled to be­hold that fierce ap­peal, Was placed the daugh­ter of King Stordi­lane: Two cost­ly vests — one red, one green — she wore; But ill the first was dyed, and fad­ed sore.

LII In dress suc­cinct Marphisa sate; in plight Such as be­seemed a war­rior and a maid: Ther­mod­oon hap­ly wit­nessed Hip­poly­te And her fair squadron in like garb ar­rayed. Afield al­ready, in his liv­ery dight, Agra­mant’s her­ald made pro­claim, and said It was for­bid to all men, far and wide, In act or word, with ei­ther part to side.

LI­II The fre­quent crowd ex­pects the dou­ble foe; And of­ten, in im­pa­tience, they com­plain, And call those fa­mous cav­aliers too slow: When from the Tar­tar’s tent an an­gry strain Is heard, and cries which mul­ti­ply; sir, know It was the mar­tial king of Ser­icane, And puis­sant Tar­tar, who that ques­tion stirred, And made the mighty tu­mult which has heard.

LIV Ser­icane’s monarch, hav­ing with his hand Equipt the king of Tar­tary all o’er, Ap­proached to gird him with that sovereign brand, With which Or­lan­do went adorned of yore. When Durin­dana on the hilt he scanned, Graved with the quar­ter­ing that Al­montes wore; Which from that wretched man, be­side a font, Youth­ful Or­lan­do reft in As­pra­mont.

LV He, see­ing this, ag­nised it for the blade So fa­mous, which Anglantes’ war­rior bore, For which he had the fairest fleet ar­rayed Which ev­er put to sea from east­ern shore; And had Castille’s rich king­dom over­laid, And con­quered fruit­ful France some years be­fore; But can­not now imag­ine how that sword Is in pos­ses­sion of the Tar­tar lord;

LVI And asks had he by force or treaty won, And when and where and how, that faul­chion bright; And Man­dri­car­do said that he had done Fierce bat­tle for that sword with Bra­va’s knight; Who feigned him­self of sober sense fore­gone, Hop­ing that so he should con­ceal his fright: — “For I on him would cease­less war have made,” (He added) “while he kept the good­ly blade.”

LVII Say­ing the Count, in yield­ing to his foe That sword, the Beavers’ known de­vice had tried; Who. fol­lowed close­ly by the hunter, know Their fell pur­suer cov­ers nought be­side. Ere he had heard him out, — “Nor I forego That sword to thee nor any one,” (replied Gradas­so, fierce,) “well earned by me, at cost Of trea­sure, and of pain, and peo­ple lost.

LVI­II “Some oth­er faul­chion for thy­self pur­vey; This will I have; nor deem my rea­sons new; Whether Or­lan­do wise or fool­ish stray, I make it mine where’er it meets my view. With none to wit­ness, thou, be­side the way Usurped that sword; I claim it as my due: For this my scime­ter shall rea­sons yield, And we will try the cause in list­ed field.

LIX “Pre­pare to win the sword be­fore thou rear That good­ly blade against King Rodomont. To win his arms is use of cav­alier, Be­fore his foe in du­el he af­front.” — “No sweet­er mu­sic ev­er soothes my ear” (Replied the Tar­tar, as he raised his front) “Than voice which cham­pi­ons me to mar­tial field; But see that his con­sent the Sarzan yield.

LX “Be thou the first; and, next on list­ed ground Let Sarza’s valiant lord the ques­tion try; Nor doubt but I in readi­ness be found To thee and ev­ery oth­er to re­ply.” ” — Thou shalt not so the or­dered lots con­found, Or break our com­pact (was Rogero’s cry): Ei­ther, first Rodomont shall take the field, Or shall to me his right of bat­tle yield.

LXI “It that be true Gradas­so has averred, That knight should win the arms he would as­say, Thou hast no ti­tle to my white-​winged bird, Save this from me thou first shalt bear away. But since, for­sooth, whilere I said the word, I will not what I once pro­nounced un­say, That mine shall be the sec­ond bat­tle, so That Argi­er’s monarch first af­front his foe.

LXII “I will con­fuse the or­der of the field, Through­out, if par­tial­ly con­fused by thee; Aban­don will I not my bla­zoned shield, Un­less thou com­bat for it now with me.” — “Were one and the oth­er Mars, for bat­tle steeled, (Replies en­raged, the king of Tar­tary) “Nor one nor the oth­er’s might should make me waive My ti­tle to that shield and good­ly glaive”;

LXI­II And over mas­tered by his choler, flies With a clenched fist at him of Ser­icane, And smites him with his right-​hand in such wise, As makes him quit his hold of Durin­dane. Gradas­so bold was tak­en by sur­prise, Not deem­ing him so fu­ri­ous and in­sane; And, while he looked not to the Tar­tar lord, Found him­self robbed of good Or­lan­do’s sword.

LX­IV Fury and scorn Gradas­so’s vis­age heats, Which seems to flash with fire, at that dis­grace; And with more rage and pain his bo­som beats, In that ’twas of­fered in such pub­lic place. To draw his scime­ter, the king re­treats, In­tent up­on re­venge, some lit­tle space. So Man­dri­car­do on him­self re­lies Rogero he to fight, as well de­fies.

LXV “Come on in arms against me, both com­bined, And be King Rodomont the third!” (he said) “Come Spain and Afric and all hu­man kind; Ne’er will I turn.” And he, at nought dis­maid, So say­ing, in his fury, sawed the wind About him, with Al­montes’ no­ble blade, Em­braced his shield, and, full of choler, stood Against Gradas­so and Rogero good.

LXVI “Leave me the care,” the fierce Gradas­so cried, “The phren­sy of this mad­man to sub­due.” — “Not so, by Heav­en!” Rogero wroth replied, “For I this field claim just­ly as my due.” — “Stand back!” and “stand thou back!” on ei­ther side They shout; yet nei­ther of the twain with­drew. And thus among those three be­gan a feud; And thence some strange re­sult would have en­sued,

LXVII If many had not in­ter­posed, and sought With lit­tle wit their fury to re­strain; Who had well-​nigh too dear the ex­pe­ri­ence bought Of sav­ing oth­ers at their prop­er pain; Nor to ac­cord the world had ev­er brought Those knights, but that the wor­thy king of Spain Came thith­er with renowned Troy­ano’s heir; Awed by whose sovereign pres­ence all for­bear.

LXVI­II Agra­mant those con­tend­ing war­riors made The cause of their so burn­ing strife dis­play; Next earnest­ly be­stirred him­self, and prayed Gradas­so that he would, in cour­te­ous way, Con­cede the Tro­jan Hec­tor’s good­ly blade To Man­dri­car­do, sole­ly for that day, Un­til the cru­el fight was at an end, Where­in he should with Rodomont con­tend.

LX­IX While roy­al Agra­mant would peace re­store, And now with this and now with that con­ferred, From the oth­er tent, be­tween the Sarzan Moor And Sac­ripant, an­oth­er strife was heard. Valiant King Sac­ripant (as said be­fore) To equip Sir Rodomont him­self be­stirred, And he and Fer­rau had that cham­pi­on drest In his fore­fa­ther Nim­rod’s iron vest;

LXX And there had they ar­rived, where with his spume The horse was mak­ing his rich bri­dle white: I of the good Fron­ti­no speak, for whom Rogero urged with yet un­felt de­spite. King Sac­ripant, who plays the part of groom, And has to bring afield the Sarzan knight, Marks nar­row­ly the cours­er’s gear and shoes, And sell and fur­ni­ture through­out re­views;

LXXI And as his points and nim­ble parts, more near, He, in this view, ob­serves with bet­ter heed, The youth­ful king, be­yond all doubt, is clear He sees his Fron­ti­lat­te in that steed, Him he of old had held so pass­ing dear, Whilom of such de­bates the fruit­ful seed; And for whose loss, whilere he was so woe, He ev­er­more on foot re­solved to go.

LXXII This from be­neath him had Brunel­lo borne Be­fore Al­brac­ca, on the very day An­gel­ica’s rare ring, and Roland’s horn, And Bal­is­ar­da he con­veyed away, With fierce Marphisa’s blade, — and on re­turn To Afric — to Rogero, from his prey, Gave Bal­is­ar­da and the cours­er, who Was by the Child Fron­ti­no named anew.

LXXI­II As­sured ’twas no mis­take, Cir­cas­sia’s chief Turned him about to Rodomont, and cried: “Reft from me in Al­brac­ca, by a thief, This horse is mine; which might be cer­ti­fied By them whose words would war­rant well be­lief: But as my wit­ness­es are dis­tant wide, If it be ques­tioned, I will make it plain, And will, with sword in hand, the truth main­tain.

LXXIV “Yet am I well con­tent­ed, for that we Have for these some few days to­geth­er gone, To lend him for to-​day; since well I see, That not with­out him could the fight be done; But on con­di­tion, that the cours­er be Ac­knowl­edged mine, and fur­nished as a loan: Oth­er­wise hope not for that horse, save first Me, on this quar­rel, thou in com­bat worst.”

LXXV The fu­ri­ous king of Argi­er, that in pride Sur­passed all knights that ev­er girt the sword, Whose paragon, for heart and prowess tried, Meseems no an­cient his­to­ries record, Cried: “Sac­ripant, if any one be­side Thy­self, to me should ut­ter such a word, He should deem quick­ly, from its bit­ter fruit, He from his birth would bet­ter have been mute.

LXXVI “But, for that fel­low­ship in which we went, (As thou hast said) to­geth­er, I to show Such pa­tience and for­bear­ance am con­tent, As warn­ing thee, thy pur­pose to forego, Un­til thou shalt have wit­nessed the event Of strife be­tween me and my Tar­tar foe: When him I such ex­am­ple hope to make, That thou shalt humbly say, `The cours­er take.’ “

LXXVII Fierce and en­raged, replied Cir­cas­sia’s peer, “To play the churl with thee is cour­te­ous deed, But I to thee re­peat more plain and clear, Thou ill wouldst aught de­sign against that steed, For, while I an aveng­ing sabre rear, This I pro­hib­it thee, and, should it need, And ev­ery bet­ter means of bat­tle fail, With thee for this would bat­tle, tooth and nail.”

LXXVI­II They from dis­pute pro­ceed to rib­aldry, From words to blows; and through their mick­le ire, Fierce bat­tle was in­flamed, and blazed more high Than ev­er light­ly-​kin­dled straw took fire. King Rodomont is steeled in panoply; Sac­ripant nei­ther plate nor mail at­tire: Yet so in fence is skilled that nim­ble lord, He seems all over shel­tered by his sword.

LXXIX No greater were the dar­ing and the might (Though in­fi­nite) which Rodomont dis­plaid Than the pre­cau­tion and the nim­ble sleight Which the Cir­cas­sian sum­moned to his aid: No mill-​wheel ev­er turns with swifter flight The cir­cling stone by which the grain is brayed, Than Sac­ripant at need moves foot or hand, And shifts now here, now there his rest­less stand.

LXXX But Ser­pen­tine and Fer­rau in­ter­fere: They with drawn swords the twain asun­der bore; With them Grando­nio was and Isoli­er, And many oth­er lead­ers of the Moor, This was the tu­mult which was heard whilere In the oth­er tent, what time they laboured sore, Rogero vain­ly to a peace to bring With Tar­tary’s and Ser­icana’s king.

LXXXI This while some voice to Agra­mant the news Re­ports aright, that Ulien’s might seed, With Sac­ripant, Cir­cas­sia’s king, pur­sues A fierce and fu­ri­ous quar­rel for the steed. Agra­mant, whom so many jars con­fuse, Ex­claims to King Mar­sil­ius: “Take thou heed That no worse evil mid these knights be­tide, While for this new dis­or­der I pro­vide.”

LXXXII Rodomont reined his anger, and re­tired Some deal, at his ap­proach­ing sovereign’s view; Nor less re­spect in Sac­ripant in­spired The Moor­ish monarch; of the fu­ri­ous two, He with grave voice and roy­al mien in­quired What cause of strife such dead­ly dis­cord blew; And hav­ing searched their quar­rel to the root, Would fain ac­cord them; but with lit­tle fruit.

LXXXI­II Cir­cas­sia’s monarch would not, on his side, Longer his horse to Argi­er’s lord al­low, Save humbly Rodomont to him ap­plied, That steed for this oc­ca­sion to be­stow. To him Sir Rodomont, with wont­ed pride, Re­turned for an­swer: “Nei­ther Heav­en nor thou Shall make me rec­og­nize as gift or loan What I with this good hand can make mine own.”

LXXXIV The king bade Sac­ripant ex­plain his right, And how that horse was tak­en from him sought; And this from first to last Cir­cas­sia’s knight Re­hearsed, and red­dened as the tale he taught, Re­lat­ing to the king the rob­ber’s sleight; Who had sur­prised him over­whelmed with thought, Up­on four spears his cours­er’s sad­dle stayed, And from be­neath the naked horse con­veyed.

LXXXV Marphisa, whom these cries, mid oth­ers, bring, When of the rob­bery of the horse ad­vised, In vis­age is dis­turbed, re­mem­ber­ing How on that day her faul­chion was sur­prised; And when that cours­er (which equipt with wing Ap­peared when fly­ing her) she rec­og­nized; And rec­og­nized as well — at first un­known — The valiant king who filled Cir­cas­sia’s throne.

LXXXVI The oth­ers who stood round her, wont to hear Brunel­lo of­ten boast of the de­ceit, ‘Gan turn to­wards that wretch, and made ap­pear By open signs they knew him for the Cheat. Marphisa who the sub­tle knave whilere Sus­pect­ed as the au­thor of that feat, Now ques­tions this, now that, who all ac­cord In say­ing ’twas Brunel­lo stole her sword;

LXXXVII Who, well de­serv­ing as a fit­ting pain To dan­gle from the gal­lows-​tree in air, By Agra­mant the crown of Tin­gi­tane (An ill ex­am­ple) was pre­ferred to wear. This fires anew Marphisa’s old dis­dain, Nor she from in­stant vengeance will for­bear, For this, as well as oth­er shame and scorn She on her road had from that caitiff born.

LXXXVI­II A squire laced on her hel­met, at her hest; She wore the rem­nant of her ar­mour sheen; Nor with­out mar­tial cuirass on her breast, Find I, that she ten times was ev­er seen, Even from the day when first that iron vest Braced on her limbs the pass­ing-​valiant queen: With helm on head, where, mid the high­est rows, Brunel­lo sits among the first, she goes.

LXXXIX Him by mid breast Marphisa griped amain, And lift­ed up the losel from the ground; As is ra­pa­cious ea­gle wont to strain The pul­let, in her talons cir­cled round; And bore him where the sons of King Troy­ane Heard the two knights their jar­ring claims pro­pound. He who per­ceives him­self in evil hands, Aye weeps, and mer­cy of that maid de­mands.

XC Above the uni­ver­sal noise and shout, Which rose nigh equal­ly on ei­ther side, Brunel­lo, who from all the crowd about For pity now, and now for suc­cour, cried, So loud was heard, that of that am­ple rout He gath­ered round him­self the press­ing tide. Ar­rived be­fore the Moor­ish army’s head, To him with haughty mien Marphisa said:

XCI “This thief (said she), thy vas­sal, will I slay, And with this hand of mine will knot the cord About his neck; be­cause the very day He stole this cours­er, he pur­loined my sword. But is there any one who deems I say Amiss, let him stand forth and speak the word; For I on him will prove, be­fore thine eyes, I have done right, and who gain­says me, lies.

XCII “But be­cause hap­ly some one may pre­tend I have till such a time of strife de­layed My vengeance, when such fa­mous knights con­tend, For three days shall the wretch’s doom be stayed; In the mean time let him who would de­fend That caitiff, come him­self, or send him aid. For af­ter­wards, if none the deed pre­vent, His car­cass shall a thou­sand birds con­tent.

XCI­II “I hence to yon­der tow­er, which dis­tant nigh Three leagues, o’er­looks a lit­tle copse, re­pair, But with one var­let in my com­pa­ny, And with one wait­ing-​maid; if any dare Res­cue the thief, let him come thith­er; I Wait the ap­proach of his de­fend­ers there.” Thus she; and thith­er quick­ly wends her ways Whith­er was said, nor any an­swer stays.

XCIV Held on the pom­mel grap­pled by his hair, Brunel­lo on Marphisa’s cours­er lies: The caitiff weeps, and shriek­ing in de­spair, On all in whom he hopes, for suc­cour cries. In such con­fu­sion is Troy­ano’s heir, He sees no way through these per­plex­ities; And, that Marphisa thence Brunel­lo bore In such a guise, yet grieved the monarch more.

XCV Not that he loved the losel or es­teemed, Rather to him some time had borne de­spite; And of­ten had to hand the caitiff schemed, Since he had for­feit­ed the ring of might. But here his hon­our touched the monarch deemed, So that his vis­age red­dened at the slight: He would, in per­son, fol­low her at speed, And to his ut­most pow­er avenge the deed.

XCVI But the wise king, So­bri­no, who was by, Him from the quest en­deav­oured to dis­suade, And that with his ex­alt­ed majesty Such en­ter­prize were ill as­sort­ed said: Al­though firm hope, nay full se­cu­ri­ty, He had to over­come that mar­tial maid, If he with pain sub­dued a wom­an, shame, Rather than hon­our, would pur­sue his name.

XCVII Small prof­it and much per­il would suc­ceed From any fight he should with her main­tain, (And he ad­vised him) as the bet­ter deed, To leave that wretched caitiff to his pain; And al­beit but a sim­ple nod should need To free him, from that nod he should re­frain. In that the monarch would do ill to force Even-​hand­ed Jus­tice from her des­tined course.

XCVI­II “Thou to the fierce Marphisa may’st ap­ply To leave his tri­al (he pur­sued) to thee, With promise, her in this to sat­is­fy And to sus­pend him from the gal­lows-​tree: And even should the maid thy prayer de­ny, Let her in ev­ery wish con­tent­ed be: And rather than that she desert thy side, Let her hang him and ev­ery thief be­side.”

XCIX Right will­ing­ly King Agra­mant gave way To King So­bri­no’s coun­sel sage and staid; And let renowned Marphisa wend her way, Nor scathed he, nor let scathe, that mar­tial maid, Nei­ther en­dured that any her should pray; And heav­en knows with what courage he obeyed That wise ad­vice, to calm such rud­er strife And quar­rel, as through­out his camp were rife.

C At this mad Dis­cord laughed, no more in fear That any truce or treaty should en­sue; And scow­ered the place of com­bat there and here, Nor could stand still, for plea­sure at the view. Pride gam­boled and re­joiced with her com­peer, And on the fire fresh food and fu­el threw, And shout­ed so that Michael in the sky Knew the glad sign of con­quest in that cry.

CI Paris-​town rocked, and tur­bid ran the flood Of Seine at that loud voice, that hor­rid roar; And, so it echo rang in Ar­den’s wood, Beasts left their cav­erns in that for­est hoar. Alp and Cevenne’s moun­tain-​soli­tude, And Blois, and Ar­les, and Rouen’s dis­tant shore, Rhine, Rhone, and Saone, and Garonne, heard the pest; Scared moth­ers hugged their chil­dren to their breast.

CII Five have set up their rest, re­solved to be The first their dif­fer­ent quar­rels to con­clude: And tan­gled so is one with oth­er plea, That ill Apol­lo’s self could judge the feud. To un­rav­el that first cause of en­mi­ty The king be­gan — the strife which had en­sued, Be­cause of beau­teous Do­ral­ice, be­tween The king of Scythia and her Al­ger­ine.

CI­II King Agra­mant oft moved, be­tween the pair, Now here now there, to bring them to ac­cord; Now there now here, ad­mon­ish­ing that pair, Like faith­ful broth­er and like righ­teous lord: But when he found that nei­ther would for­bear, Deaf and re­bel­lious to his roy­al word, Nor would con­sent that la­dy to forego, The cause of strife, in favour of his foe,

CIV As his best lore, at length the monarch said, And to obey his sen­tence both were fain; That he who was by her pre­ferred, should wed The beau­teous daugh­ter of King Stordi­lane: And that what was es­tab­lished on his head Should not be changed, to ei­ther’s loss or gain. The com­pro­mise was liked on ei­ther side, Since ei­ther hoped she would for him de­cide.

CV The mighty king of Sarza, who long space Be­fore the Tar­tar, had loved Do­ral­ice, (Who had pre­ferred that sovereign to such grace As mod­est la­dy may, nor do amiss) Be­lieved, when she past sen­tence on the case, She must pro­nounce what would en­sure his bliss. Nor thus alone King Rodomont con­ceived, But all the Moor­ish host with him be­lieved.

CVI All know what ex­ploits wrought by him had been For her in joust and war; they all un­sound And weak King Man­dri­car­do’s judg­ment ween; But he, who oft was with her on their round, And of­ten­er pri­vate with the youth­ful queen, What time the tell-​tale sun was un­der ground, He, know­ing well how sure he was to speed, Laughed at the sil­ly rab­ble’s idle creed.

CVII They, af­ter, rat­ify the king’s award, Be­tween his hands, and next the suit­ors twain Be­fore that damsel go, that on the sward Fix­ing her down­cast eyes, in mod­est vein, Avows her pref­er­ence of the Tar­tar lord; At which sore won­der­ing stand the payn­im train; And Rodomont re­mains so sore as­tound, He can­not raise his vis­age from the ground.

CVI­II But wont­ed anger chas­ing shame which dyed The Sarzan’s face all over, he ar­raigned The damsel’s sen­tence, of the faul­chion, tied About his man­ly waist, the han­dle strained, And in the king’s and oth­ers’ hear­ing cried: “By this the ques­tion shall be lost or gained; And not by faith­less wom­an’s fick­le thought, Which thith­er still in­clines, where least it ought.”

CIX Kind Man­dri­car­do on his feet once more, Ex­claims, “And be it as it pleas­es thee.” So that ere yet the ves­sel made the shore Un­ploughed re­mained a mighty space of sea; But that this king re­proved the Sarzan sore, Rul­ing that to ap­peal up­on that plea No more with Man­dri­car­do could avail, And made the moody Sarzan strike his sail.

CX Brand­ed with dou­ble scorn, be­fore those peers, By no­ble Agra­mant, whose sovereign sway He, as in loy­al du­ty bound, reveres, And by his la­dy on the self­same day, There will no more the monarch of Al­giers Abide, but of his band — a large ar­ray — Two ser­jeants on­ly for his ser­vice takes, And with that pair the payn­im camp for­sakes.

CXI As the af­flict­ed bull who has fore­gone His heifer, nor can longer war­fare wage, Seeks out the green­wood-​holt and stream most lone, Or sands at dis­tance from his pas­turage; There ceas­es not, in sun or shade to moan; Yet not for that ex­hales his amorous rage: So parts, con­strained his la­dy to forego, The king of Argi­er, over­whelmed with woe.

CXII Rogero moved, his cours­er to re­gain, And had al­ready donned his war­like gear, Then rec­ol­lect­ing, that on list­ed plain At Man­dri­car­do he must couch the spear, Fol­lowed not Rodomont, but turned his rein, To end his quar­rel with the Tar­tar, ere He met in com­bat Ser­icana’s lord With­in close bar­ri­ers, for Or­lan­do’s sword.

CXI­II To have Fron­ti­no rav­ished in his sight, And be un­able to for­bid the deed, He sore­ly grieves; but, when he shall that fight Have done, re­solves he will re­gain the steed; But Sac­ripant, whom, like the youth­ful knight, No quar­rels in the Moor’s pur­suit im­pede, And who was un­en­gaged in oth­er quest, Up­on the Sarzan’s foot­steps quick­ly prest;

CX­IV And would have quick­ly joined him that was gone, But for the chance of an ad­ven­ture rare; Which him de­tained un­til the day was done, And made him lose the track of Ulien’s heir: A wom­an who had fall­en in­to the Saone, And who with­out his help had per­ished there, The war­rior drown­ing in that wa­ter found, And stemmed the stream and dragged the dame aground.

CXV When af­ter­wards he would re­mount the sell, From him his rest­less charg­er broke astray, Who fled be­fore his lord till evening fell, Nor light­ly did the king that cours­er stay. At last he caught him; but no more could spell Where he had wan­dered from the beat­en way: Two hun­dred miles he roved, ‘twist hill and plain, Ere he came up with Rodomont again.

CXVI How he by Sac­ripant was over­tak­en, And fought by him, to his dis­com­fit sore, And how he lost his cours­er, how was tak­en, I say not now, who have to say be­fore, With what dis­dain and with what anger shak­en, Against his liege and love, the Sarzan Moor Forth from the Sara­cen can­ton­ments sped, And what he of the one and oth­er said.

CXVII Wher­ev­er that af­flict­ed payn­im goes, He fills the kin­dling air with sighs that burn; And Echo oft, for pity of his woes, With him from hol­low rock is heard to mourn: “O fe­male mind! how light­ly ebbs and flows Your fick­le mood,” (he cries,) “aye prone to turn! Ob­ject most op­po­site to kind­ly faith! Lost, wretched man, who trusts you to his scathe!

CXVI­II “Nei­ther my love nor length of servi­tude, Though by a thou­sand proofs to you made clear, Had pow­er even so to fix your faith­less mood, That you at least so light­ly should not veer: Nor am I quit­ted, be­cause less en­dued With worth than Man­dri­car­do I ap­pear; Nor for your con­duct cause can I de­clare, Save this alone, that you a wom­an are.

CX­IX “I think that na­ture and an an­gry God Pro­duced thee to the world, thou wicked sex, To be to man a plague, a chas­ten­ing rod; Hap­py, wert thou not present to per­plex. So ser­pent creeps along the grassy sod; So bear and raven­ing wolf the for­est vex; Wasp, fly, and gad-​fly buzz in liq­uid air, And the rich grain lies tan­gled with the tare.

CXX “Why has not boun­teous Na­ture willed that man Should be pro­duced with­out the aid of thee, As we the pip­pin, pear, and ser­vice can En­graft by art on one an­oth­er’s tree? But she di­rects not all by cer­tain plan; Rather, up­on a near­er view, I see, In nam­ing her, she ill can act aright, Since Na­ture is her­self a fe­male hight.

CXXI “Yet be not there­fore proud and full of scorn Wom­en, be­cause man is­sues from your seed; For ros­es al­so blos­som on the thorn, And the fair lily springs from loath­some weed. De­spi­teous, proud, im­por­tu­nate, and lorn Of love, of faith, of coun­sel, rash in deed, With that, un­grate­ful, cru­el and per­verse, And born to be the world’s eter­nal curse!”

CXXII These plaints and count­less oth­ers to the wind Poured forth the payn­im knight, to fury stirred; Now eas­ing in low tone his trou­bled mind, And now in sounds which were at dis­tance heard, In shame and in re­proach of wom­ankind; Yet certes he from sober rea­son erred: For we may deem a hun­dred good abound, Where one or two per­chance are evil found.

CXXI­II Though none for whom I hith­er­to have sighed — Of those so many — have kept faith with me, All with in­grat­itude, or false­hood dyed I deem not, I ac­cuse my des­tiny. Many there are, and have been more be­side Un­mer­it­ing re­proach: but if there be, ‘Mid hun­dreds, one or two of evil way, My for­tune wills that I should be their prey.

CXXIV Yet will I make such search be­fore I die, Rather be­fore my hair shall wax more white, That hap­ly on some fu­ture day, even I Shall say, “That one has kept her promise plight.” And should not the event my trust be­lie, (Nor am I hope­less) I with all my might Will with un­wea­ried pain her praise re­hearse With pen and ink and voice, in prose and verse.

CXXV The Sara­cen, whom rage no less pro­found Against his sovereign lord than la­dy swayed, And who of rea­son thus o’er­past the bound, And ill of one and of the oth­er said, Would fain be­hold that monarch’s king­dom drowned With such a tem­pest, with such scathe o’er­laid, As should in Africk ev­ery house ag­grieve, Nor one stone stand­ing on an­oth­er leave.

CXXVI And would that from his realm, in want and woe, King Agra­mant a men­di­cant should wend; That through his means the monarch, brought thus low, His fa­thers’ an­cient seat might reas­cend: And thus he might the fruit of feal­ty show, And make his sovereign see, a re­al friend Was aye to be pre­ferred in wrong or right, Al­though the world against him should unite;

CXXVII And thus the Sara­cen pours forth his moan, With rage against his liege and love pos­sest; And on his way is by long jour­neys gone, Giv­ing him­self and cours­er lit­tle rest. The fol­low­ing day or next, up­on the Saone He finds him­self, who has his course ad­drest To­wards the coast of Provence, with de­sign To his African do­main to cross the brine.

CXXVI­II From bank to bank the stream was cov­ered o’er With boat of lit­tle bur­den, which con­veyed, For the sup­ply of the in­vad­ing Moor, Vict­ual, from many places round pur­veyed: Since even from Paris to the pleas­ant shore Of Ac­quamor­ta, all his rule obeyed; And — fronting Spain — whate’er of lev­el land Was seen, ex­tend­ing on the bet­ter hand.

CXXIX The vict­ual, dis­em­barked from load­ed barge, Was laid on sumpter-​horse or ready wain; And sent, with es­cort to pro­tect the charge, Where barges could not come; about the plain, Fat herds were feed­ing on the dou­ble marge, Brought thith­er from the march of ei­ther reign; And, by the riv­er-​side, at close of day, In dif­fer­ent home­steads lodged, the drovers lay.

CXXX The king of Argi­er (for the dusky air Of night be­gan up­on the world to close) Here lis­tened to a vil­lage-​land­lord’s prayer, That in his inn be­sought him to re­pose. — His cours­er stalled — the board with plen­teous fare Is heaped, and Cor­sic wine and Gre­cian flows; For, in all else a Moor, the Sarzan drank Of the for­bid­den vin­tage like a Frank.

CXXXI To war­like Rodomont, with good­ly cheer And kindli­er mien, the land­lord hon­our paid; For he the port of an il­lus­tri­ous peer In his guest’s lofty pres­ence saw pour­trayed. But, sore be­side him­self, the cav­alier Had scarce his heart with­in him, which had strayed To her — whilere his own — in his de­spite; Nor word es­caped the melan­choly knight.

CXXXII Mine host, most dili­gent in his vo­ca­tion Of all the trade who through­out France were known, (In that he had, ‘mid strange and hos­tile na­tion, And ev­ery chance of war­fare, kept his own) — Prompt to as­sist him in his oc­cu­pa­tion, Some of his kin had called; where­of was none Who dared be­fore the war­rior speak of aught, See­ing that payn­im mute and lost in thought.

CXXXI­II From thought to thought the Sarzan’s fan­cy flies, Him­self re­moved from thence a mighty space, Who sits so bent, and with such down­cast eyes, He nev­er once looks any in the face. Next, af­ter si­lence long, and many sighs, As if deep slum­ber had but then giv­en place, His spir­its he re­calls, his eye­lids rais­es, And on the fam­ily and land­lord gazes.

CXXXIV Then si­lence broke, and with a milder air, And vis­age some­what less dis­turbed, ap­plied To him, the host, and those by-​standers there, To know if any to a wife were tied; And land­lord and at­ten­dants, — that all were, To Sarza’s moody cav­alier replied: He asked what each con­ceit­ed of his spouse, And if he deemed her faith­ful to her vows.

CXXXV Ex­cept mine host, those oth­ers were agreed That chaste and good their con­sorts they be­lieved. — “Think each man as he will, but well I read,” (The land­lord said,) “You fond­ly are de­ceived: Your rash replies to one con­clu­sion lead, That you are all of com­mon sense be­reaved; And so too must be­lieve this no­ble knight, Un­less he would per­suade us black is white.

CXXXVI “Be­cause, as sin­gle is that pre­cious bird The phoenix, and on earth there is but one, So, in this am­ple world, it is averred, One on­ly can a wom­an’s trea­son shun. Each hopes alike to be that wight pre­ferred, The vic­tor who that sin­gle palm has won. — How is it pos­si­ble that what can fall To one alone, should be the lot of all?

CXXXVII “Erewhile I made the same mis­take as you, And that more dames than one were vir­tu­ous thought, Un­til a gen­tle­man of Venice, who, For my good for­tune, to this inn was brought, My ig­no­rance by his ex­am­ples true So ably schooled, he bet­ter wis­dom taught. Va­le­rio was the name that stranger bore; A name I shall re­mem­ber ev­er­more.

CXXXVI­II “Of wives and mis­tress­es the treach­ery Was known to him, with all their cun­ning lore. He, both from old and mod­ern his­to­ry, And from his own, was ready with such store, As plain­ly showed that none to mod­esty Could make pre­ten­sion, whether rich or poor; And that, if one ap­peared of pur­er strain, ‘Twas that she bet­ter hid her wan­ton vein.

CXXXIX “He of his many tales, among the rest, (Where­of a third is from my mem­ory gone) So well one sto­ry in my head im­prest, It could not be more firm­ly graved in stone: And what I thought and think, would be pro­fessed For that ill sex, I ween by ev­ery one Who heard; and, Sir — if pleased to lend an ear — To their con­fu­sion yon that tale shall hear.”

CXL “What could’st thou of­fer which could bet­ter please At present” (made re­ply the payn­im knight) “Than sam­ple, cho­sen from thine his­to­ries, Which hits the opin­ion that I hold, aright? That I may hear thee speak with bet­ter ease Sit so, that I may have thee in my sight.” But in the fol­low­ing can­to I un­fold What to King Rodomont the land­lord told.