Scene I.
A chamber in Orlando's palace.
Enter Orlando to his Boy asleep.
Orl.
Boy! he is asleep;
Oh innocence, how fairly dost thou head
This pure, first page of man. Peace to thy slumbers;
Sleep, for thy dreams are 'midst the seraphs' harps,
Thy thoughts beneath the wings of holiness,
Thine eyes in Paradise.
The day may come, (if haply gentle death
Say not amen to thy short prayer of being,
And lap thee in the bosom of the blest;)
I weep to think on, when the guilty world
Shall, like a friend, be waiting at thy couch,
And call thee up on ev'ry dawn of crime.
Boy
(awaking.)
Dear master, didst thou call? I will not be
A second time so slothful.
Orl.
Sleep, my boy,
Thy task is light and joyous, to be good.
Boy.
Oh! if I must be good, then give me money,
I pray thee, give me some, and you shall find
I'll buy up every tear, and make them scarcer
Than diamonds.
Orl.
Beautiful pity, thou shalt have enough;
But you must give me your last song.
Boy.
Nay, sir;
You're wont to say my rhymes are fit for girls,
And lovesick ideots; I have none you praise
Full of the heat of battle and the chase.
Orl.
Sing what you will, I'll like it.
Song.
A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,
And bright as midnight's brightest eyes,
And round his starry way
The swan-winged horses of the skies,
With summer's music in their manes,
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,
And urge their graceful play.
A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
The sparrows flutter round his wrist,
The feathery thieves that Venus kissed
And taught their morning song,
The linnets seek the airy list,
And swallows too, small pets of Spring,
Beat back the gale with swifter wing,
And dart and wheel along.
A ho! A ho!
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
Now woe to every gnat that skips
To filch the fruit of ladies' lips,
His felon blood is shed;
And woe to flies, whose airy ships
On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,
Whose sting is slaughter-red.
Orl.
Who is thy poet, boy?
Boy.
I must not tell.
Orl.
Then I will chide thee for him. Who first drew
Love as a blindfold imp, an earthen dwarf,
And armed him with blunt darts? His soul was kin
To the rough wind that dwells in the icy north,
The dead, cold pedant, who thus dared confine
The universe's soul, for that is Love.
'Tis he that acts the nightingale, the thrush,
And all the living musics, he it is
That gives the lute, the harp, and tabor speech,
That flutters on melodious wings and strikes
The mute and viewless lyres of sunny strings
Borne by the minstrel gales, mimicking vainly
The timid voice, that sent him to my breast,
That voice the wind hath treasured and doth use
When he bids roses open and be sweet.
Boy.
Now I could guess.
Orl.
What, little curious one?
Boy.
The riddle of Orlando's feelings. Come,
You must not frown. I know the lawn, the cot,
Aye, and the leaf-veiled lattice.
Orl.
I shall task
Your busy watchfulness. Bear you this paper,
I would not trust it to a doubtful hand.
Boy.
Unto the wood-nymph? You may think the road
Already footed.
Orl.
Go, and prosper then.
[Exeunt.
