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Orlando Furioso by Ariosto, Lodovico - CANTO 7

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Orlando Furioso

CANTO 7

AR­GU­MENT Rogero, as di­rect­ed by the pair, The gi­ant­ess Eriphi­la o’erthrows. That done, he to Al­ci­na’s labyrinth, where More than one knight is tied and pris­oned, goes. To him Melis­sa sage the se­cret snare, And rem­edy for that grave evil shows. Whence he, by her ad­vised, with down­cast eye, And full of shame forth­with re­solves to fly.

I The trav­eller, he, whom sea or moun­tain sun­der From his own coun­try, sees things strange and new; That the mis­judg­ing vul­gar, which lies un­der The mist of ig­no­rance, es­teems un­true: Re­ject­ing what­so­ev­er is a won­der, Un­less ’tis pal­pa­ble and plain to view: Hence in­ex­pe­ri­ence, as I know full well, Will yield small cre­dence to the tale I tell.

II But this be great or small, I know not why The rab­ble’s sil­ly judge­ment I should fear, Con­vinced you will not think the tale a lie, In whom the light of rea­son shines so clear. And hence to you it is I on­ly try The fruit of my fa­tigues to ren­der dear. I end­ed where Eriphi­la in guard Of bridge and stream was seen, the pas­sage barred.

III Of finest met­al was her ar­mour bright, With gems of many colours over­spread, The tawny jacinth, yel­low chyr­so­lite, The emer­ald green of hue, and ru­by red. Mount­ed, but not on pal­frey, for the fight: In place of that, she on a wolf had sped, Sped on a wolf to­wards the pass; and rode On sell, that rich be­yond all cus­tom showed.

IV No larg­er wolf, I ween, Apu­lia roams; More huge than bull, un­guid­ed by her hand; Al­though up­on no bit the mon­ster foams, Docile, I know not why, to her com­mand. The ac­cursed Plague, ar­rayed in sur­coat, comes Above her arms, in colour like the sand; That, sav­ing in its dye, was of the sort Which bish­ops and which prelates wear at court.

V The gi­ant­ess’s crest and shield ap­pear, For en­sign, decked with swoln and poi­sonous toad. Her the two damsels to the cav­alier Be­fore the bridge, pre­pared for bat­tle, showed, Threat­en­ing, as wont to some, with lev­elled spear, To do the war­rior scorn and bar the road. Bid­ding him turn, she to Rogero cries; A lance he takes, and threats her and de­fies.

VI As quick and dar­ing, the gi­gan­tic Pest Spurred her wolf, seat­ed well for that dread game: In mid ca­reer she laid her lance in rest, And made earth quake be­neath her as she came; Yet at the en­counter fierce the cham­paign pressed; For un­der­neath the casque, with sted­fast aim, So hard Rogero smote her, that he bore The bel­dam back­ward six good yards and more:

VII And came al­ready with his lift­ed blade, Drawn for that end, to take her haughty head; To him an easy task; for she was laid Among the grass and flow­ers, like one that’s dead. But, ” ‘Tis enough that she is van­quished,” said The pair, “No fur­ther press thy vengeance dread. Sheathe, cour­te­ous cav­alier, thy sword anew: Pass we the riv­er, and our way pur­sue.”

VI­II Along the path, which through a for­est lay, Roughish and somedeal ill to beat, they went. Be­sides that strait and stony was the way, This, nigh di­rect­ly, scaled a hill’s as­cent. But, when ar­rived up­on the sum­mit, they Is­sued up­on a mead of vast ex­tent; And a more pleas­ant palace on that green Be­held, and brighter than was ev­er seen.

IX To meet the Child, Al­ci­na, fair of hue, Ad­vanced some way be­yond the out­er gate; And, gird­ed by a gay and court­ly crew, Rogero there re­ceived in lord­ly state: While all the rest to him such hon­our do, And on the knight with such deep rev­er­ence wait, They could not have dis­played more zeal and love, Had Jove de­scend­ed from the choirs above.

X Not so much does the palace, fair to see, In rich­es oth­er prince­ly domes ex­cel, As that the gen­tlest, fairest, com­pa­ny Which the whole world con­tains, with­in it dwell: Of ei­ther sex, with small va­ri­ety Be­tween, in youth and beau­ty matched as well: The fay alone ex­ceeds the rest as far As the bright sun out­shines each less­er star.

XI Her shape is of such per­fect sym­me­try, As best to feign the in­dus­tri­ous painter knows, With long and knot­ted tress­es; to the eye Not yel­low gold with brighter lus­tre glows. Up­on her ten­der cheek the min­gled dye Is scat­tered, of the lily and the rose. Like ivory smooth, the fore­head gay and round Fills up the space, and forms a fit­ting bound.

XII Two black and slen­der arch­es rise above Two clear black eyes, say suns of ra­di­ant light, Which ev­er soft­ly beam and slow­ly move; Round these ap­pears to sport in frol­ic flight, Hence scat­ter­ing all his shafts, the lit­tle Love, And seems to plun­der hearts in open sight. Thence, through mid vis­age, does the nose de­scend, Where En­vy finds not blem­ish to amend.

XI­II As if be­tween two vales, which soft­ly curl, The mouth with ver­meil tint is seen to glow: With­in are strung two rows of ori­ent pearl, Which her de­li­cious lips shut up or show. Of force to melt the heart of any churl, How­ev­er rude, hence cour­te­ous ac­cents flow: And here that gen­tle smile re­ceives its birth, Which opes at will a par­adise on earth.

XIV Like milk the bo­som, and the neck of snow; Round is the neck, and full and large the breast; Where, fresh and firm, two ivory ap­ples grow, Which rise and fall, as, to the mar­gin pressed By pleas­ant breeze, the bil­lows come and go. Not pry­ing Ar­gus could dis­cern the rest. Yet might the ob­serv­ing eye of things con­cealed Con­jec­ture safe­ly, from the charms re­vealed.

XV To all her arms a just pro­por­tion bear, And a white hand is of­ten­times de­scried, Which nar­row is, and somedeal long; and where No knot ap­pears, nor vein is sig­ni­fied. For fin­ish of that state­ly shape and rare, A foot, neat, short, and round, be­neath is spied. An­gel­ic vi­sions, crea­tures of the sky, Con­cealed be­neath no cov­er­ing veil can lie.

XVI A springe is plant­ed in Rogero’s way, On all sides did she speak, smile, sing, or move; No won­der then the stripling was her prey, Who in the fairy saw such show of love. With him the guilt and false­hood lit­tle weigh, Of which the of­fend­ed myr­tle told above. Nor will he think that per­fidy and guile Can be unit­ed with so sweet a smile.

XVII No! he could now be­lieve, by mag­ic art, As­tolpho well trans­formed up­on the plain, For pun­ish­ment of foul un­grate­ful heart, And hap­ly mer­it­ing sev­er­er pain. And, as for all he heard him late im­part, ‘Twas prompt­ed by re­venge, ’twas false and vain. By hate and mal­ice was the suf­fer­er stung, To blame and wound the fay with slan­der­ous tongue.

XVI­II The beau­teous la­dy whom he loved so well Is new­ly ban­ished from his al­tered breast; For (such the mag­ic of Al­ci­na’s spell) She ev­ery an­cient pas­sion dis­pos­sessed; And in his bo­som, there alone to dwell, The im­age of her love, and self im­pressed. So witched, Rogero sure some grace de­serves, If from his faith his frail af­fec­tion swerves.

XIX At board lyre, lute and harp of tune­ful string, And oth­er sounds, in mixed di­ver­si­ty, Made, round about, the joy­ous palace ring, With glo­ri­ous con­cert and sweet har­mo­ny. Nor lacked there well-​ac­cord­ed voice to sing Of love, its pas­sion and its ec­sta­sy; Nor who, with rare in­ven­tions, choice­ly versed, De­light­ful fic­tion to the guests re­hearsed.

XX What ta­ble, spread by what­so­ev­er heir Of Ni­nus, though tri­umphant were the board, Or what more fa­mous and more cost­ly, where Cleopa­tra feast­ed with the La­tian lord, Could with this ban­quet’s match­less joys com­pare, By the fond fairy for Rogero stored? I think not such a feast is spread above, Where Ganymede presents the cup to Jove.

XXI They form a ring, the board and fes­tive cheer Re­moved, and sit­ting, play a mer­ry game: Each asks, still whis­per­ing in a neigh­bour’s ear, What se­cret pleas­es best; to knight and dame A fair oc­ca­sion, with­out let or fear, Their love, un­heard of any, to pro­claim. And in con­clu­sion the two lovers plight Their word, to meet to­geth­er on that night.

XXII Soon, and much soon­er than their wont, was end­ed The game at which the palace in­mates play: When pages on the troop with torch­es tend­ed, And with their ra­di­ance chased the night away. To seek his bed the pal­adin as­cend­ed, Girt with that good­ly squadron, in a gay And airy bow­er, ap­point­ed for his rest, Mid all the oth­ers cho­sen as the best.

XXI­II And when of com­fits and of cor­dial wine A fit­ting prof­fer has been made anew, The guests their bod­ies rev­er­ent­ly in­cline, And to their bow­ers de­part the court­ly crew. He up­on per­fumed sheets, whose tex­ture fine Seemed of Arachne’s loom, his body threw: Hear­ken­ing this while with still at­ten­tive ears, If he the com­ing of the la­dy hears.

XXIV At ev­ery move­ment heard on dis­tant floor, Hop­ing ’twas her, Rogero raised his head: He thinks he hears; but it is heard no more, Then sighs at his mis­take: oft­times from bed He is­sued, and un­did his cham­ber door, And peeped abroad, but still no bet­ter sped; And cursed a thou­sand times the hour that she So long re­tard­ed his fe­lic­ity.

XXV “Yes, now she comes,” the stripling of­ten said, And reck­oned up the paces, as he lay, Which from her bow­er where hap­ly to be made To that where he was wait­ing for the fay. These thoughts, and oth­er thoughts as vain, he weighed Be­fore she came, and rest­less at her stay, Of­ten be­lieved some hin­der­ance, yet un­scanned, Might in­ter­pose be­tween the fruit and hand.

XXVI At length, when drop­ping sweets the cost­ly fay Had put some end to her per­fumery, The time now come she need no more de­lay, Since all was hushed with­in the palace, she Stole from her bow­er alone, through se­cret way, And passed to­wards the cham­ber silent­ly, Where on his couch the youth­ful cav­alier Lay, with a heart long torn by Hope and Fear.

XXVII When the suc­ces­sor of As­tolpho spies Those smil­ing stars above him, at the sight A flame, like that of kin­dled sul­phur, flies Through his full veins, as rav­ished by de­light Out of him­self; and now up to the eyes Plunged in a sea of bliss, he swims out­right. He leaps from bed and folds her to his breast, Nor waits un­til the la­dy he un­dressed;

XXVI­II Though but in a light sendal clad, that she Wore in the place of far­thin­gale or gown; Which o’er a shift of finest qual­ity, And white, about her limbs the fay had thrown: The man­tle yield­ed at his touch, as he Em­braced her, and that veil re­mained alone, Which up­on ev­ery side the damsel shows, More than clear glass the lily or the rose.

XXIX The plant no clos­er does the ivy clip, With whose green boughs its stem is in­ter­laced. Than those fond lovers, each from ei­ther’s lip The balmy breath col­lect­ing, he em­braced: Rich per­fume this, whose like no seed or slip Bears in sweet In­di­an or Saba­can waste; While so to speak their joys is ei­ther fixed, That of­ten­times those meet­ing lips are mixed.

XXX These things were car­ried close­ly by the dame And youth, or if sur­mised, were nev­er bruit­ed; For si­lence sel­dom was a cause for blame, But of­ten­er as a virtue well re­put­ed. By those shrewd courtiers, con­scious of his claim, Rogero is with prof­fers fair salut­ed: Wor­shipped of all those in­mates, who ful­fil In this the en­am­oured far, Al­ci­na’s will.

XXXI No plea­sure is omit­ted there; since they Alike are pris­on­ers in Love’s mag­ic hall. They change their rai­ment twice or thrice a day, Now for this use, and now at oth­er call. ‘Tis of­ten feast, and al­ways hol­iday; ‘Tis wrestling, tour­ney, pageant, bath, and ball. Now un­der­neath a hill by foun­tain cast, They read the amorous lays of ages past:

XXXII Now by glad hill, or through the shady dale, They hunt the fear­ful hare, and now they flush With busy dog, saga­cious of the trail, Wild pheas­ant from the stub­ble-​field or bush. Now where green ju­nipers per­fume the gale, Sus­pend the snare, or lime the flut­ter­ing thrush: And cast­ing now for fish, with net or book, Dis­turb their se­cret haunts in pleas­ant brook.

XXXI­II Rogero rev­els there, in like de­light, While Charles and Agra­mant are trou­bled sore. But not for him their sto­ry will I slight, Nor Bradamant for­get: who ev­er­more, Mid toil­some pain and care, her cher­ished knight, Rav­ished from her, did many a day de­plore; Whom by un­wont­ed ways, trans­port­ed through Mid air, the damsel saw, nor whith­er knew.

XXXIV Of her I speak be­fore the roy­al pair, Who many days pur­sued her search in vain; By shad­owy wood, or over cham­paign bare, By farm and city, and by hill and plain; But seeks her cher­ished friend with fruit­less care, Di­vid­ed by such space of land and main: Of­ten she goes among the Payn­im spears, Yet nev­er aught of her Rogero hears.

XXXV Of hun­dreds ques­tioned, up­on ev­ery side, Each day, no an­swer ev­er gives con­tent. She roams from post to post, and far and wide Search­es pavil­ion, lodg­ing, booth, or rent, And this, mid foot or horse­men, un­espied, May safe­ly do, with­out im­ped­iment, Thanks to the ring, whose more than mor­tal aid, When in her mouth, con­ceals the van­ished maid.

XXXVI She can­not, will not, think that he is dead; Be­cause the wreck of such a no­ble knight Would, from Hy­daspes’ dis­tant waves have spread, To where the sun de­scends with wes­ter­ing light. She knows not what to think, nor whith­er sped, He roams in earth or air; yet, hap­less wight, Him ev­er seeks, and for at­ten­dant train Has sobs and sighs, and ev­ery bit­ter pain.

XXXVII At length to find the won­drous cave she thought, Where the prophet­ic homes of Mer­lin lie, And there lament her­self un­til she wrought Up­on the pity­ing mar­ble to re­ply; For thence, if yet he lived would she be taught, Of this glad life to hard ne­ces­si­ty Had yield­ed up; and, when she was pos­sessed Of the seer’s coun­cils, would pur­sue the best.

XXXVI­II With this in­ten­tion, Bradamant her way Di­rect­ed thith­er, where in Poic­ti­er’s wood The vo­cal tomb, con­tain­ing Mer­lin’s clay, Con­cealed in Alpine place and sav­age, stood. But that en­chantress sage, who night and day Thought of the damsel, watch­ful for her good, She, I re­peat, who taught her what should be In that fair grot­to her pos­ter­ity;

XXXIX She who pre­served her with pro­tect­ing care, That same en­chantress, still be­nign and wise, Who, know­ing she a match­less race should bear Of men, or rather se­mi-​deities, Spies dai­ly what her thoughts and ac­tions are, And lots for her each day, di­vin­ing, tries; — She all Rogero’s for­tune knew, how freed; Then borne to In­dia by the grif­fin steed:

XL Him on that cours­er plain­ly she had eyed, Who would not the con­trol­ling rein obey; When, sev­ered by such in­ter­val, he hied, Borne through the per­ilous, un­wont­ed way: And knew that he sport, dance, and ban­quet plied, And lapt in idle­ness and plea­sure lay; Nor mem­ory of his lord nor of the dame, Once loved so well, pre­served, not of his fame.

XLI And thus such gen­tle knight in­glo­ri­ous­ly Would have con­sumed his fairest years and best, In long in­ac­tion, af­ter­wards to be, Body and soul, de­stroyed; and that, pos­sessed Alone by us in per­pe­tu­ity. That flow­er, whose sweets out­live the frag­ile rest Which quick­ens man when he in earth is laid, Would have been plucked or sev­ered in the blade.

XLII But that en­chantress kind, who with more care Than for him­self he watched, still kept the knight, De­signed to drag him, by rough road and bare, To­wards true virtue, in his own de­spite; As of­ten cun­ning leech will burn and pare The flesh, and poi­sonous drug em­ploy aright: Who, though at first his cru­el art of­fend, Is thanked, since he pre­serves us in the end.

XLI­II She, not like old At­lantes, ren­dered blind By the great love she to the stripling bore, Set not on gift­ing him with life her mind, As was the scope of that en­chanter hoar; Who, reck­less all of fame and praise de­clined, Wished length of days to his Rogero more Than that, to win a world’s ap­plause, the peer Should of his joy­ous life forego one year.

XLIV By him he to Al­ci­na’s isle had been Dis­patched, that in her palace he might dwell, For­get­ting arms; and, as en­chanter seen In mag­ic and the use of ev­ery spell, The heart had fas­tened of that fairy-​queen, En­am­oured of the gen­tle youth, so well, That she the knot would nev­er dis­en­gage, Though he should live to more than Nestor’s age.

XLV Re­turn­ing now to her that well foreknew What­ev­er was to come to pass, I say She thith­er did her jour­ney straight pur­sue, Where she met Ay­mon’s daugh­ter by the way For­lorn and wan­der­ing: Bradamant at view Of her en­chantress, erst to grief a prey, Changes it all to hope: the oth­er tells That with Al­ci­na her Rogero dwells.

XLVI Nigh dead the maid re­mains, in piteous guise, Hear­ing of him so far re­moved, and more Grieves that she dan­ger to her love de­scries, Save this some strong and speedy cure re­store. But her the en­chantress com­forts, and ap­plies A salve where it was need­ed most, and swore That few short days should pass be­fore anew Rogero should re­turn to glad her view.

XLVII “Since thou, an an­ti­dote to sor­cery, La­dy (she said), the vir­tu­ous ring dost wear, I have no doubt if to yon is­land I This, where thine ev­ery good is hid­den, hear, To foil Al­ci­na’s wiles and witch­ery, And thence to bring thee back thy cher­ished care. This evening, ear­ly, will I hence away, And be in In­dia by the break of day.”

XLVI­II And told to her, the tale con­tin­uing, The mode which she was pur­pos­ing to em­ploy, From that ef­fem­inate, soft realm to bring Back in­to war­like France the cher­ished boy. Bradamant from her fin­ger slipt the ring, Nor this alone would have be­stowed with joy; But heart and life would at her feet have laid, If she had deemed they could Rogero aid.

XLIX Giv­ing the ring, her cause she rec­om­mends To her, and rec­om­mends Rogero more. Count­less salutes by her the damsel sends, Then of Provence, de­part­ing seeks the shore. The en­chantress to an­oth­er quar­ter wends; And, for the ex­ecu­tion of her lore, Con­jures, that eve, a pal­frey, by her art, With one foot red, black ev­ery oth­er part.

L Some Far­farel­lo, or Alchi­no he, I think, whom in that form she raised from hell; And with loose hair, di­shev­elled hor­ri­bly, Un­girt and bare­foot, mount­ed in the sell. But, with wise cau­tion, from her fin­ger she With­drew the ring, lest it should mar the spell: And then by him was with such swift­ness born, She in Al­ci­na’s isle ar­rived at morn.

LI Her­self she changed with won­der­ful dis­guise, Adding a palm of stature to her height; And made her limbs of a pro­por­tioned size; And of the very mea­sure seemed to sight, As was she deemed, the necro­mancer wise, Who with such care had reared the youth­ful knight. With long-​de­scend­ing beard she clothed her chin, And wrin­kled o’er her front and oth­er skin.

LII To im­itate his speech, and face, and cheer, She knew so well, that, by the youth de­scried, She might the sage At­lantes’ self ap­pear; Next hid, and watched so long, that she es­pied Up­on a day (rare chance) the cav­alier At length de­tached from his Al­ci­na’s side: For still, in mo­tion or at rest, the fay Ill bore the youth should be an hour away.

LI­II Alone she finds him, fit­ting well her will, As he en­joys the pure and morn­ing air Be­side a brook, which trick­led from a hill, Stream­ing to­wards a limpid lake and fair. His fine, soft gar­ments, wove with cun­ning skill, All over, ease and wan­ton­ness de­clare; These with her hand, such sub­tle toil well taught, For him in silk and gold Al­ci­na wrought.

LIV About the stripling’s neck, a splen­did string Of gems, de­scend­ing to mid-​breast, is wound; On each once man­ly arm, now glit­ter­ing With the bright hoop, a bracelet fair is bound. Pierced with gold­en wire, in form of ring, Is ei­ther ear; and from the yel­low round De­pend two pre­cious pearls; not such the coast Of Ara­by or sump­tu­ous In­dia boast.

LV Crisped in­to come­ly ringlets was his hair, Wet with the costli­est odours and the best; And soft and amorous all his ges­tures were, Like one who does Valen­tian la­dy’s hest. In him, be­side his name, was noth­ing fair, And more than half cor­rupt­ed all the rest. So was Rogero found, with­in that dell, Changed from his for­mer self by po­tent spell.

LVI Him in the fig­ure of At­lantes sage She fronts, who bore the en­chanter’s bor­rowed cheer; With that grave face, and rev­erend with age, Which he was al­ways wont­ed to re­vere; And with that eye, which in his pupil­lage, Beam­ing with wrath, he whilom so did fear. And stern­ly cries, “Is this the fruit at last Which pays my te­dious pain and labour past?

LVII “The mar­row of the li­on and the bear Didst thou for this thine ear­ly ban­quet make, And, trained by me, by cliff or cav­ern-​lair, Stran­gle with in­fant hands the crest­ed snake; Their claws from tiger and from pan­ther tear, And tusks from liv­ing boar in tan­gled brake, That, bred in such a school, in thee should I Al­ci­na’s Atys or Ado­nis spy?

LVI­II “Is this the hope that stars, ob­served by me, Signs in con­junc­tion, sa­cred fi­bres, bred; With what be­side of dream or au­gury, And all those lots I but too deeply read, Which, while yet hang­ing at the breast, of thee, When these thy years should be ac­com­plished, said, Thy fears should so be bruit­ed far and near, Thou just­ly should be deemed with­out a peer?

LIX “This does, in truth, a fair be­gin­ning show; A seed which, we may hope, will soon con­ceive A Julius, Alexan­der, Sci­pio. Who thee Al­ci­na’s bonds­man could be­lieve; And (for the world the shame­ful fact might know) That all should, man­ifest to sight, per­ceive Up­on thy neck and arms the servile chains, Where­with she at her will her cap­tive trains?

LX “If thine own sin­gle hon­our move not thee, And the high deeds which thou art called to do, Where­fore de­fraud thy fair pos­ter­ity Of what, was oft pre­dict­ed, should en­sue? Alas! why seal the womb God willed should be Preg­nant by thee with an il­lus­tri­ous crew, That far renowned, and more than hu­man line, Des­tined the sun in glo­ry to out­shine?

LXI “For­bid not of the no­blest souls the birth, Formed in the ideas of Eter­nal Mind, Des­tined, from age to age, to vis­it earth, Sprung from thy stock, and clothed in cor­po­ral rind; The spring of thou­sand palms and fes­tal mirth, Through which, to Italy with loss­es pined And wounds, thy good de­scen­dants shall re­store The fame and hon­ours she en­joyed of yore.

LXII “Not on­ly should these many souls have weight To bend thy pur­pose, holy souls, and bright, Which from thy fruit­ful tree shall veg­etate; But, though alone, a sin­gle cou­ple might Suf­fice a no­bler feel­ing to cre­ate, Alphon­so and his broth­er Hyp­po­lite: Whose like was sel­dom wit­nessed to this time, Through all the paths whence men to virtue climb.

LXI­II “I was more wont to dwell up­on this pair Than all the rest, of whom I proph­esied; As well that these a greater part should bear In lofty virtues, as that I de­scried Thee, lis­ten­ing to my lore with clos­er care, Than to the tale of all thy seed be­side. I saw thee joy that such a pair would shine Amid the heroes of thy no­ble line.

LX­IV “Say, what has she, thou mak­est thy fan­cy’s queen, More than what oth­er courtezans pos­sess? Who of so many con­cu­bine has been; How used her lovers in the end to bless, Thou tru­ly know’st: but that she may be seen With­out dis­guise, and in her re­al dress, This ring, re­turn­ing, on thy fin­ger wear, And thou shalt see the dame, and mark how fair.”

LXV Abashed and mute, Rogero, lis­ten­ing, In vain to her re­proof an an­swer sought: Who on his lit­tle fin­ger put the ring, Whose virtue to him­self the war­rior brought. And such re­morse and shame with­in him spring, When on his al­tered sense the change is wrought, A thou­sand fath­oms deep he fain would lie Buried in earth, un­seen of any eye.

LXVI So speak­ing, to the nat­ural shape she wore Be­fore his eyes re­turned the mag­ic dame; Nor old At­lantes’ form was need­ed more, The good ef­fect ob­tained for which she came. To tell you that which was not told be­fore, Melis­sa was the sage en­chantress’ name: Who to Rogero now her pur­pose said, And told with what de­sign she thith­er sped:

LXVII Dis­patched by her, who him in anx­ious pain De­sires, nor longer can with­out him be, With the in­tent to loose him from the chain Where­with he was be­girt by sor­cery; And had put on, more cre­dence to ob­tain, At­lantes de Care­na’s form; but she, See­ing his health re­stored, now willed the youth, Through her should hear and see the very truth.

LXVI­II “That gen­tle la­dy who so loves thee, who Were well de­serv­ing love up­on thy part; To whom (un­less for­got, thou know’st how true The tale) thou debtor for thy free­dom art, This ring, which can each mag­ic spell un­do, Sends for thy suc­cour, and would send her heart, If with such virtue fraught, her heart could bring Thee safe­ly in thy per­ils, like the ring.”

LX­IX How Bradamant had loved, and loves, she says, Con­tin­uing to Rogero her re­la­tion; To this, her worth com­mends with fit­ting praise, Tem­per­ing in truth and fond­ness her nar­ra­tion; And still em­ploys the choic­est mode and phrase, Which fits one skil­ful in ne­go­ci­ation, And on the false Al­ci­na brings such hate, As on things hor­ri­ble is wont to wait;

LXX Brings hate on that which he so loved be­fore; Nor let the tale as­ton­ish which you hear, For since his love was forced by mag­ic lore, The ring the false en­chant­ment served to clear. This too un­masked the charms Al­ci­na wore, And made all false, from head to food, ap­pear. None of her own, but bor­rowed, all he sees, And the once sparkling cup now drugged with lees.

LXXI Like boy who some­where his ripe fruit be­stows, And next for­gets the place where it is laid, Then, af­ter many days, con­duct­ed goes By chance, where he the rich de­posit made, And won­ders that the hid­den trea­sure shows, Not what it is, but rot­ten and de­cayed; And hates, and scorns, and loathes, with al­tered eyes, And throws away what he was used to prize.

LXXII Rogero thus, when by Melis­sa’s lore Ad­vised, he to be­hold the fay re­turned, And that good ring of sovereign virtue wore, Which, on the fin­ger placed, all spells o’er­turned; For that fair damsel he had left be­fore, To his sur­prise, so foul a dame dis­cerned, That in this am­ple world, ex­am­ined round, A hag so old and hideous is not found.

LXXI­II Pale, lean, and wrin­kled was the face, and white, And thin­ly clothed with hair Al­ci­na’s head; Her stature reached not to six palms in height, And ev­ery tooth was gone; for she had led A longer life than ev­er mor­tal wight, Than Hecu­ba or she in Cuma bred; But thus by prac­tice, to our age un­known, Ap­peared with youth and beau­ty not her own.

LXXIV By art she gave her­self the love­ly look, Which had on many like Rogero wrought; But now the ring in­ter­pret­ed the book, Which se­crets, hid for many ages, taught. No won­der then that he the dame for­sook, And ban­ished from his mind all fur­ther thought Of love for false Al­ci­na, found in guise Which no new means of slip­pery fraud sup­plies.

LXXV But, as Melis­sa coun­selled him, he wore His wont­ed sem­blance for a time, till he Was with his ar­mour, many days be­fore Laid by, again ac­cou­tred cap-​a-​pee. And, lest Al­ci­na should his end ex­plore, Feigned to make proof of his agili­ty; Feigned to make proof if for his arms he were Too gross, long time un­wont the mail to bear.

LXXVI Next Bal­is­ar­da to his flank he tied (For so Rogero’s tren­chant sword was hight), And took the won­drous buck­ler, which, es­pied, Not on­ly daz­zled the be­hold­er’s sight, But seemed, when its silk veil was drawn aside, As from the body if ex­haled the sprite: In its close cov­er of red sendal hung, This at his neck the youth­ful war­rior slung.

LXXVII Pro­vid­ed thus, he to the sta­bles came, And bade with bri­dle and with sad­dle dight A horse more black than pitch; for so the dame Coun­selled, well-​taught how swift the steed and light. Him Ra­bi­cano those who know him name, And he the cours­er was, that with the knight, Who stands be­side the sea, the breeze’s sport, The whale of yore con­duct­ed to that port.

LXXVI­II The hip­pogryph he might have had at need, Who next be­low good Ra­bi­can was tied, But that the dame had cried to him, “Take heed, Thou know’st how ill that cours­er is to ride”; And said the fol­low­ing day the winged steed ‘Twas her in­ten­tion from that realm to guide, Where he should be in­struct­ed at his leisure, To rein and run him ev­ery where at plea­sure:

LXXIX Nor, if he took him not, would he sug­gest Sus­pi­cion of the in­tend­ed flight: The peer This while per­formed Melis­sa’s ev­ery hest, Who, still in­vis­ible, was at his ear. So feign­ing, from the wan­ton dome pos­sessed By that old strum­pet, rode the cav­alier; And prick­ing forth drew near un­to a gate, Whence the road led to Lo­gis­til­la’s state.

LXXX As­sault­ing sud­den­ly the guardian crew, He, sword in hand, the squadron set up­on; This one he wound­ed, and that oth­er slew, And, point by point made good, the draw­bridge won: And ere of his es­cape Al­ci­na knew, The gen­tle youth was far away and gone. My next shall tell his route, and how he gained At last the realm where Lo­gis­til­la reigned.