Orlando Furioso

CANTO 4

AR­GU­MENT The old At­lantes suf­fers fa­tal wreck, Foiled by the ring, and young Rogero freed, Who soars in air till he ap­pears a speck, Mount­ed up­on the wiz­ard’s winged steed. Obe­di­ant to the roy­al Charles’s beck, He who had fol­lowed Love’s im­pe­ri­ous lead, Ri­nal­do, dis­em­barks on British land, And saves Genevra, doomed to stake and brand.

I Though an ill mind ap­pear in sim­ula­tion, And, for the most, such qual­ity of­fends; ‘Tis plain that this in many a sit­ua­tion Is found to fur­ther ben­efi­cial ends, And save from blame, and dan­ger, and vex­ation; Since we con­verse not al­ways with our friends, In this, less clear than cloud­ed, mor­tal life, Be­set with snares, and full of en­vi­ous strife.

II If af­ter painful proof we scarce­ly find A re­al friend, through var­ious chances sought, To whom we may com­mu­ni­cate our mind, Keep­ing no watch up­on our wan­der­ing thought; What should the young Rogero’s la­dy kind Do with Brunel­lo, not sin­cere, but fraught With trea­sons man­ifold, and false and taint­ed, As by the good en­chantress tru­ly paint­ed?

III She feigns as well with that de­ceit­ful scout; (Fit­ting with him the fa­ther of all lies) Watch­es his thievish hands in fear and doubt; And fol­lows ev­ery mo­tion with her eyes. When lo! a mighty noise is heard with­out! “O mighty moth­er! king of heav­en!” she cries, “What thing is this I hear?” and quick­ly springs To­wards the place from whence the larum rings,

IV And sees the host and all his fam­ily, Where, one to door, and one to win­dow slips, With eyes up­turned and gaz­ing at the sky, As if to wit­ness comet or eclipse. And there the la­dy views, with won­der­ing eye, What she had scarce be­lieved from oth­er’s lips, A feath­ered cours­er, sail­ing through the rack, Who bore an armed knight up­on his back.

V Broad were his pin­ions, and of var­ious hue; Seat­ed be­tween, a knight the sad­dle pressed, Clad in steel arms, which wide their ra­di­ance threw, His won­der­ous course di­rect­ed to the west: There dropt among the moun­tains lost to view. And this was, as that host in­formed his guest, (And true the tale) a sor­cer­er, who made Now far­ther, now more near, his fre­quent raid.

VI “He, some­times tow­er­ing, soars in­to the skies; Then seems, de­scend­ing, but to skim the ground: And of all beau­teous wom­en makes a prize, Who, to their mis­chief, in these parts are found. Hence, whether in their own or oth­er’s eyes, Es­teemed as fair, the wretched damsels round, (And all in fact the felon plun­ders) hine; As fear­ing of the sun to be de­scried.

VII “A cas­tle on the Pyre­nean height The necro­mancer keeps, the work of spell.” (The host re­lates) “of steel, so fair and bright, All na­ture can­not match the won­der­ous shell. There many cav­aliers, to prove their might, Have gone, but none re­turned the tale to tell. So that I doubt, fair sir, the thief en­thralls Or slays who­ev­er in the en­counter falls.”

VI­II The watch­ful maid at­tends to ev­ery thing, Glad at her heart, and trust­ing to com­plete (What she shall com­pass by the vir­tu­ous ring) The down­fall of the en­chanter and his seat. Then to the host — “A guide I pray thee bring, Who bet­ter knows than me the thief’s re­treat. So burns my heart. (nor can I choose but go) To strive in bat­tle with this wiz­ard foe.”

IX “It shall not need,” ex­claimed the dwarfish Moor, “For I, my­self, will serve you as a guide; Who have the road set down, with oth­er lore, So that you shall re­joice with me to ride.” He meant the ring, but fur­ther hint for­bore; Lest dear­ly he the avowed should abide. And she to him — “Your guid­ance gives me plea­sure.” Mean­ing by this she hoped to win his trea­sure.

X What use­ful was to say, she said, and what Might hurt her with the Sara­cen, con­cealed. Well suit­ed to her ends, the host had got A pal­frey, fit­ting for the road or field. She bought the steed, and as Au­ro­ra shot Her rosy rays, rode forth with spear and shield: And maid and couri­er through a val­ley wind, Brunel­lo now be­fore and now be­hind.

XI From wood to wood, from mount to moun­tain hoar, They clomb a sum­mit, which in cloud­less sky Dis­cov­ers France and Spain, and ei­ther shore. As from a peak of Apen­nine the eye May Tus­can and Sclavo­ni­an sea ex­plore, There, whence we jour­ney to Camal­doli. Then through a rugged path and painful wend­ed, Which thence in­to a low­ly vale de­scend­ed.

XII A rock from that deep val­ley’s cen­tre springs; Bright walls of steel about its sum­mit go: And this as high that airy sum­mit flings, As it leaves all the neigh­bour­ing cliffs be­low. He may not scale the height who has not wings, And vain­ly would each painful toil be­stow. “Lo! where his pris­on­ers!” Sir Brunel­lo cries, “Ladies and cav­aliers, the en­chanter sties.”

XI­II Scarped smooth up­on four parts, the moun­tain bare Seemed fash­ioned with the plumb, by builder’s skill Nor up­on any side was path or stair, Which fur­nished man the means to climb the hill. The cas­tle seemed the very nest and lair Of an­imal, sup­plied with plume and quill. And here the damsel knows ’tis time to slay The wily dwarf, and take the ring away.

XIV But deems it foul, with blood of man to stain Un­armed and of so base a sort, her brand; For well, with­out his death, she may ob­tain The cost­ly ring; and so sus­pends her hand. Brunel­lo, off his guard, with lit­tle pain, She seized, and strong­ly bound with gird­ing band: Then to a lofty fir made fast the string; But from his fin­ger first with­drew the ring.

XV Nei­ther by tears, nor groans, nor sound of woe, To move the sted­fast maid the dwarf had pow­er: She down the rugged hill de­scend­ed slow, Un­til she reached the plain be­neath the tow­er. Then gave her bu­gle breath, the keep be­low, To call the cas­tled wiz­ard to the stow­er: And when the sound was fin­ished, threat­en­ing cried, And called him to the com­bat and de­fied.

XVI Not long with­in his gate the en­chanter stayed, Af­ter he heard the voice and bu­gle ring. Against the foe, who seemed a man, ar­rayed In arms, with him the horse is on the wing. But his ap­pear­ance well con­soled the maid, Who, with small cause for fear, be­held him bring Nor mace, nor rest­ed lance, nor bit­ting sword, Where­with the corse­let might be bruised or gored.

XVII On his left arm alone his shield he took, Cov­ered all o’er with silk of crim­son hue; In his right-​hand he held an open book, Whence, as the en­chanter read, strange won­der grew: For of­ten times, to sight, the lance he shook; And flinch­ing eye­lids could not hide the view; With tuck or mace he seemed to smite the foe: But sate aloof and had not struck a blow.

XVI­II No emp­ty fic­tion wrought by mag­ic lore, But nat­ural was the steed the wiz­ard pressed; For him a fil­ly to grif­fin bore; Hight hip­pogryph. In wings and beak and crest, Formed like his sire, as in the feet be­fore; But like the mare, his dam, in all the rest. Such on Riphaean hills, though rarely found, Are bred, be­yond the frozen ocean’s bound.

XIX Drawn by en­chant­ment from his dis­tant lair, The wiz­ard thought but how to tame the foal; And, in a month, in­struct­ed him to bear Sad­dle and bit, and gal­lop to the goal; And ex­ecute on earth or in mid air, All shifts of ma­nege, course and cara­cole; He with such labour wrought. This on­ly re­al, Where all the rest was hol­low and ide­al.

XX This truth by him with fic­tions was com­bined, Whose sleight passed red for yel­low, black for white: But all his vain en­chant­ments could not blind The maid, whose vir­tu­ous ring as­sured her sight: Yet she her blows dis­charges at the wind; And spurring here and there pro­longs the fight. So drove or wheeled her steed, and smote at nought, And prac­tised all she had be­fore been taught.

XXI When she some­time had fought up­on her horse, She from the cours­er on her feet de­scends: To com­pass and more freely put in force, As by the en­chantress schooled, her wily ends. The wiz­ard, to dis­play his last re­source, Un­weet­ing the de­fence, to­wards her wends. He bares the shield, se­cure to blind his foe, And by the mag­ic light, as­ton­ished, throw.

XXII The shield might have been shown at first, nor he Need­ed to keep the cav­aliers at bay; But that he loved some mas­ter-​stroke to see, Achieved by lance or sword in sin­gle fray. As with the cap­tive mouse, in sportive glee, The wily cat is some­times seen to play; Till wax­ing wroth, or weary of her prize, She bites, and at a snap the pris­on­er dies.

XXI­II To cat and mouse, in bat­tles fought be­fore, I liken the ma­gi­cian and his foes; But the com­par­ison holds good no more: For, with the ring, the maid against him goes; Firm and at­ten­tive still, and watch­ing sore, Lest up­on her the wiz­ard should im­pose: And as she sees him bare the won­drous shield, Clos­es her eyes and falls up­on the field.

XXIV Not that the shin­ing met­al could of­fend, As wont those oth­ers, from its cov­er freed; But so the damsel did, to make de­scend The vain en­chanter from his won­drous steed. Nor was in ought de­feat­ed of her end; For she no soon­er on the grassy mead Had laid her head, than wheel­ing wide­ly round, The fly­ing cours­er pitched up­on the ground.

XXV Al­ready cased again, the shield was hung, By the ma­gi­cian, at his sa­dle bow. He lights and seeks her, who like wolf among The bush­es, couched in thick­et, waits the roe; She with­out more de­lay from am­bush sprung, As he drew near, and grap­pled fast the foe. That wretched man, the vol­ume by whose aid He all his bat­tles fought, on earth had laid:

XXVI And ran to bind her with a chain, which he, Girt round about him for such a pur­pose, wore; Be­cause he deemed she was no less to be Mas­tered and bound than those sub­dued be­fore. Him hath the dame al­ready flung; by me Ex­cused with rea­son, if he strove not more. For fear­ful were the odds be­tween that bold And puis­sant maid, and war­rior weak and old!

XXVII In­tend­ing to be­head the fall­en foe, She lifts her con­quer­ing hand; but in mid space, When she be­holds his vis­age, stops the blow, As if dis­dain­ing a re­venge so base. She sees in him, her prowess has laid low, A ven­er­able sire, with sor­row­ing face; Whose hair and wrin­kles speak him, to her guess, Of years six score and ten, or lit­tle less.

XXVI­II “Kill me, for love of God!” (af­flict­ed sore, The old en­chanter full of wrath did cry). But the vic­to­ri­ous damsel was not more Averse to kill, than he was bent to die. To know who was the necro­mancer hoar The gen­tle la­dy had de­sire, and why The tow­er he in that sav­age place de­signed, Do­ing such out­rage foul to all mankind.

XXIX “Nor I, by mal­ice moved, alas! poor wight,” (The weep­ing necro­mancer an­swer made,) “Built the fair cas­tle on the rocky height, Nor yet for rap­ine ply the rob­ber’s trade; But on­ly to re­deem a gen­tle knight From dan­ger sore and death, by love was swayed; Who, as the skies fore­show, in lit­tle sea­son, Is doomed to die a Chris­tian, and by trea­son.

XXX “The sun be­holds not ‘twixt the poles, a Child So ex­cel­lent as him, and pass­ing fair; Who from his in­fan­cy, Rogero styled, (At­lantes I) was tu­tored by my care. By love of fame and evil stars be­guiled, He fol­lows in­to France Troy­ano’s heir. Him, in my eyes, than son es­teemed more dear, I seek to snatch from France and per­il near.

XXXI “I on­ly built the beau­teous keep to be Rogero’s dun­geon, safe­ly har­boured there; Who whilom was sub­dued in fight by me, As I to-​day had hoped thy­self to snare, And dames and knights, and more of high de­gree, Have to this tow­er con­veyed, his lot to share, That with such part­ners of his prison pent, He might the loss of free­dom less lament.

XXXII “Save they should seek to break their dun­geon’s bound, I grant my in­mates ev­ery oth­er plea­sure. For what­so­ev­er in the world is found, Search its four quar­ters, in this keep I trea­sure; (What­ev­er heart can wish or tongue can sound) Cates, brave at­tire, game, sport, or mirth­ful mea­sure. My field well sown, I well had reaped my grain. But that thy com­ing makes my labour vain.

XXXI­II “Ah! then un­less thy heart less beau­teous be Than thy sweet face, mar not my pi­ous care; Take my steel buck­ler, this I give to thee, And take that horse, which flies so fast in air, Nor med­dle with my cas­tle more; or free One or two cap­tive friends, the rest for­bear — Or (for I crave but this) re­lease them all, So that Rogero but re­main my thrall.

XXXIV “Or if dis­posed to take him from my sight, Be­fore the youth be in­to France con­veyed, Be pleased to free my mis­er­able sprite From its now rot­ted bark, long de­cayed.” “Prate as thou wilt, I shall re­store the knight To lib­er­ty,” replied the mar­tial maid, “Nor of­fer shield and cours­er to re­sign, Which are not in thy gift, — al­ready mine.

XXXV “Nor were they thine to take or to be­stow, Would it ap­pear that such ex­change were wise; Thou sayest to save him from what stars fore­show, And cheat an evil in­flu­ence of the skies Rogero is con­fined. Thou canst not know, Or know­ing, canst not change his des­tinies: For, if un­known an ill so near to thee, Far less mayest thou an­oth­er’s fate fore­see.

XXXVI “Seek not thy death from me; for the pe­ti­tion Is made in vain; but if for death thou sigh, Though the whole world re­fused the req­ui­si­tion, A soul re­solved would find the means to die. But ope thy gates to give thy guests dis­mis­sion Be­fore thine hand the knot of life un­tie.” So spake the scorn­ful dame with an­gry mock, Speed­ing her cap­tive still to­wards the rock.

XXXVII Round by the con­queror with the chain he bore, At­lantes walked, the damsel fol­low­ing nigh, Who trust­ed not to the ma­gi­cian hoar, Al­though he seemed sub­dued in port and eye. Nor many paces went the pair, be­fore They at the moun­tain’s foot the cleft es­py, With steps by which the rugged hill to round; And climb, till to the cas­tle-​gate they wound:

XXXVI­II At­lantes from the thresh­old, graved by skill, With char­ac­ters and won­drous signs, up­turned A vir­tu­ous stone, where, un­der­neath the sill, Pots, with per­pet­ual fire and se­cret, burned. The en­chanter breaks them; and at once the hill To an in­hos­pitable rock is turned. Nor wall nor tow­er on any side is seen, As if no cas­tle there had ev­er been.

XXXIX Then from the la­dy’s toils the wiz­ard clears His limbs, as thrush es­capes the fowler’s snare; With him as well his cas­tle dis­ap­pears, And leaves the pris­oned troop in open air; From their gay lodg­ings, dames and cav­aliers, Un­housed up­on that desert, bleak and bare. And many at the free­dom felt an­noy, Which dis­pos­sessed them of such life of joy.

XL There is Gradas­so, there is Sac­ripant, There is Prasil­do, no­ble cav­alier, Who with Ri­nal­do came from the Lev­ant; Irol­do, too, Prasil­do’s friend sin­cere. And there, at last, the love­ly Bradamant Dis­cerns Rogero, long de­sired and dear; Who, when as­sured it was that la­dy, flew With joy­ful cheer to greet the damsel true;

XLI As her he prized be­fore his eyes, his heart, His life; from that day cher­ished when she stood Un­casqued for him, and from the fight apart; And hence an ar­row drank her vir­gin blood. ‘Twere long to tell who launched the cru­el dart, And how the lovers wan­dered in the wood; Now guid­ed by the sun, and now be­night­ed, Here first since that en­counter re­unit­ed.

XLII Now that the stripling sees her here, and knows Alone she freed him from the wiz­ard’s nest, He deems, his bo­som with such joy over­flows, That he is singly for­tu­nate and blest. Thith­er, where late the damsel con­quered, goes The band, de­scend­ing from the moun­tain’s crest; And finds the hip­pogryph, who bore the shield, But in its case of crim­son silk con­cealed.

XLI­II To take him by the rein the la­dy there Ap­proached, and he stood fast till she was nigh, Then spread his pin­ions to the liq­uid air, And at short dis­tance lit, half-​moun­tain high: And, as she fol­lows him with fruit­less care, Not longer flight nor short­er will he try. ‘Tis thus the raven, on some sandy beach, Lures on the dog, and flits be­yond his reach.

XLIV Gradas­so, Sac­ripant, Rogero, who With all those oth­er knights be­low were met, Where’er, they hope he may re­turn, pur­sue The beast, and up and down, each pass be­set. He hav­ing led those oth­ers, as he flew, Of­ten to rocky height, and bot­tom wet, Among the rocks of the moist val­ley dropt, And at short dis­tance from Rogero stopt.

XLV This was At­lantes the en­chanter’s deed, Whose pi­ous wish­es still di­rect­ed were, To see Rogero from his per­il freed: This was his on­ly thought, his on­ly care; Who for such end dis­patched the winged steed, Him out of Eu­rope by this sleight to bear. Rogero took his bri­dle, but in vain; For he was restive to the guid­ing rein.

XLVI Now the bold youth from his Fron­ti­no flings (Fron­ti­no was his gen­tle cours­er hight) Then leaps on him who tow­ers in air, and stings And goads his haughty heart with row­els bright. He runs a short ca­reer; then up­ward springs. And through mid ether soars a fair­er flight Than hawk, from which the fal­con­er plucks away In time the blind­ing hood, and points her prey.

XLVII When her Rogero the fair dame dis­cerned, In fear­ful per­il, soar so high a strain, She stood long space amazed, ere she re­turned To her right judge­ment, and sound wits again: And what she erst of Ganymede had learned, Snatched up to heav­en from his pa­ter­nal reign, Feared might be­fall the stripling, born through air, As gen­tle as young Ganymede and fair.

XLVI­II She on Rogero looks with sted­fast eyes As long as fee­ble sight can serve her use; And in her mind next tracks him through the skies, When sight in vain the cher­ished youth pur­sues. And still re­new­ing tears, and groans, and sighs, Will not af­ford her sor­row peace or truce. Af­ter the knight had van­ished from her view, Her eyes she on the good Fron­ti­no threw.

XLIX And lest the cours­er should be­come the prey Of the first trav­eller, who passed the glen, Him will not leave; but thence to bear away Re­solves, in trust to see his lord again. The grif­fin soars, nor can Rogero stay The fly­ing cours­er; while, be­neath his ken, Each peak and promon­to­ry sinks in guise, That he dis­cerns not flat from moun­tain-​rise.

L Af­ter the hip­pogryph has won such height, That he is less­ened to a point, he bends His course for where the sun, with sink­ing light, When he goes round the heav­en­ly crab, de­scends; And shoots through air, like well-​greased bark and light, Which through the sea a wind pro­pi­tious sends. Him leave we on his way, who well shall speed, And turn we to Ri­nal­do in his need.

LI Day af­ter day the good Ri­nal­do fares, Forced by the wind, the spa­cious ocean through; Now west­ward borne, and now to­ward the Bears; For night and day the cease­less tem­pest blew. Scot­land at last her dusky coast up­rears, And gives the Cale­do­nian wood to view; Which, through its shad­owy groves of an­cient oak, Oft echoes to the cham­pi­on’s stur­dy stroke.

LII Through this roves many a fa­mous cav­alier, Renowned for feat in arms, of British strain; And throng from dis­tant land, or coun­try near, French, Norse, of Ger­man knights, a nu­mer­ous train. Let none, save he be valiant, ven­ture here, Where, seek­ing glo­ry, death may be his gain. Here Arthur, Gala­halt, and Gau­vaine fought, And well Sir Launcelot and Tris­tram wrought.

LI­II And oth­er wor­thies of the ta­ble round; (Of ei­ther ta­ble, whether old or new) Whose tro­phies yet re­main up­on the ground; Proof of their valiant feats, Ri­nal­do true Forth­with his ar­mour and Ba­yardo found, And land­ed on the woody coast: The crew He bade, with all the haste they might, re­pair To Berwick’s neigh­bour­ing port, and wait him there.

LIV With­out a guide or com­pa­ny he went Through that wide for­est; choos­ing now this way, Now that, now oth­er, as it might present Hope of ad­ven­tur­ous quest or hard as­say: And, ere the first day’s cir­cling sun is spent, The peer is guest­ed in an abbey gray: Which spends much wealth in har­bour­ing those who claim Its shel­ter, war­like knight or wan­der­ing dame.

LV The monks and ab­bot to Mount Al­ban’s peer A good­ly wel­come in their house ac­cord; Who asked, but not be­fore with savoury cheer He am­ply had his wea­ried strength re­stored, If in that tract, by er­rant cav­alier, Of­ten ad­ven­tur­ous quest might be ex­plored, In which a man might prove, by dan­ger­ous deed, If blame or glo­ry were his fit­ting meed.

LVI They an­swered, in those woods he might be sure Many and strange ad­ven­tures would be found; But deeds, there wrought, were, like the place, ob­scure, And, for the greater part, not bruit­ed round. “Then seek (they said) a wor­thi­er quest, se­cure Your works will not be buried un­der­ground. So that the glo­ri­ous act achieved, as due, Fame may your per­il and your pain pur­sue.

LVII “And if you would your war­like worth as­say, Pre­pare the wor­thi­est en­ter­prize to hear, That, e’er in times of old or present day, Was un­der­tak­en by a cav­alier. Our monarch’s daugh­ter needs some friend­ly stay, Now sore best­ed, against a puis­sant peer: Lur­canio is the doughty baron’s name, Who would be­reave her both of life and fame.

LVI­II “Her he be­fore her fa­ther does pur­sue, Per­chance yet more for ha­tred than for right; And vouch­es, to a gallery she up­drew A lover, seen by him, at dead of night. Hence death by fire will be the damsel’s due, Such is our law, un­less some cham­pi­on fight On her be­half, and, ere a month go by, (Nigh spent) up­on the ac­cus­er prove the lie.

LIX “Our im­pi­ous Scot­tish law, se­vere and dread, Wills, that a wom­an, whether low or high Her state, who takes a man in­to her bed, Ex­cept her hus­band, for the of­fence shall die. Nor is there hope of ran­som for her head, Un­less to her de­fence some war­rior hie; And as her cham­pi­on true, with spear and shield, Main­tain her guilt­less in the list­ed field.

LX “The king, sore griev­ing for Geneu­ra bright, For such is his un­hap­py daugh­ter’s name, Pro­claims by town and city, that the knight Who shall de­liv­er her from death and shame, He to the roy­al damsel will unite, With dow­er, well suit­ed to a roy­al dame; So that the valiant war­rior who has stood In her de­fence, be come of gen­tle blood.

LXI “But if with­in a month no knight ap­pear, Or com­ing, con­quer not, the damsel dies. A like em­rpize were wor­thi­er of your spear Than wan­der­ing through these woods in low­ly guise. Be­sides, the eter­nal tro­phy you shall rear, You by the deed shall gain a glo­ri­ous prize, The sweet­est flow­er of all the ladies fair That be­twixt Ind and At­las’ pil­lars are.

LXII “And you with wealth and state shall guer­doned be, So that you ev­er­more may live con­tent, And the king’s grace, if through your means he see His hon­our raised anew, now well-​nigh spent. Be­sides, you by the laws of chival­ry Are bound to venge the damsel foul­ly shent. For she, whose life is by such trea­son sought, Is chaste and spot­less in the com­mon thought.”

LXI­II Ri­nal­do mused awhile, and then replied, “And must a gen­tle damsel die by fire, Be­cause she with a lover’s wish com­plied, And quenched with­in her arms his fond de­sire? Cursed be the law by which the dame is tried! Cursed he who would per­mit a doom so dire! Per­ish (such fate were just!) who cru­el proves! Not she that life be­stows on him who loves.

LX­IV “Or true or false Geneu­ra’s tale of shame; If she her lover blessed I lit­tle heed: For this my praise the la­dy well might claim, If man­ifest were not that gen­tle deed. My ev­ery thought is turned to aid the dame. Grant me but one to guide my steps, and lead Quick­ly to where the foul ac­cus­er stands, I trust in God to loose Geneu­ra’s bands.

LXV “I will not vouch her guilt­less in my thought, In fear to war­rant what is false; but I Bold­ly main­tain, in such an act is nought For which the damsel should de­serve to die; And ween un­just, or else of wit dis­traught, Who statutes framed of such sever­ity; Which, as in­iq­ui­tous, should be ef­faced, And with a new and bet­ter code re­placed.

LXVI “If like de­sire, and if an equal flame Move one and the oth­er sex, who warm­ly press To that soft end of love (their goal the same) Which to the wit­less crowd seems rank ex­cess; Say why shall wom­an — mer­it scathe or blame, Though lovers, one or more, she may ca­ress; While man to sin with whom he will is free, And meets with praise, not mere im­puni­ty?

LXVII “By this in­ju­ri­ous law, un­equal still, On wom­an is in­flict­ed open wrong; And to demon­strate it a grievous ill, I trust in God, which has been borne too long.” To good Ri­nal­do’s sen­tence, with one will, Deem­ing their sires un­just, as­sents the throng, Their sires who such out­ra­geous statute penned, And king, who might, but does not, this amend.

LXVI­II When the new dawn, with streaks of red and white, Broke in the east, and cleared the hemi­sphere, Ri­nal­do took his steed and ar­mour bright: A squire that abbey fur­nished to the peer. With him, for many leagues and miles, the knight Pricked through the dis­mal for­est dark and drear; While they to­wards the Scot­tish city ride, Where the poor damsel’s cause is to be tried.

LX­IX Seek­ing their way to short­en as they wound, They to the wider track a path pre­ferred; When echo­ing through the gloomy for­est round, Loud lamen­ta­tions nigh the road were heard. To­wards a neigh­bour­ing vale, whence came the sound, This his Ba­yardo, that his hack­ney spurred; And viewed, be­tween two gris­ly ruf­fi­ans there, A girl, who seemed at dis­tance pass­ing fair.

LXX But woe be­gone and weep­ing was the maid As ev­er damsel dame, or wight was seen: Hard by the bar­barous twain pre­pared the blade, To del­uge with that damsel’s blood the green. She to de­lay her death awhile es­sayed, Un­til she pity moved with mourn­ful mien. This when Ri­nal­do near ap­proach­ing eyes, He thith­er drives with threats and fu­ri­ous cries.

LXXI The ruf­fi­ans turn their backs and take to flight As soon as they the dis­tant suc­cour view, And squat with­in a val­ley out of sight: Nor cares the good Ri­nal­do to pur­sue. To her ap­proach­ing, sues Mount Al­ban’s knight, To say what on her head such evil drew; And, to save time, com­mands his squire to stoop, And take the damsel on his horse’s croup.

LXXII And as the la­dy near­er he sur­veyed, Her wise be­haviour marked and beau­ty’s bloom; Though her fait coun­te­nance was all dis­mayed, And by the fear of death o’er­spread with gloom. Again to know, the gen­tle knight es­sayed, Who had pre­pared for her so fell a doom; And she be­gan to tell in hum­ble tone What to an­oth­er can­to I post­pone.