LXXVIII.
“If this fair flower be plucked, oh, misery! oh,
“Despair! what more is left me but to die?
“Almighty God, with every other woe
“Rather than this, thy wretched suppliant try.
“If this be true, these hands the fatal blow
“Shall deal, and doom me to eternity.”
Mixing his plaint with bitter tears and sighs,
So to himself the grieved Orlando cries.
LXXIX.
Already every where, with due repose,
Creatures restored their weary spirits; laid
These upon stones and upon feathers those,
Or greensward, in the beech or myrtle’s shade:
But scarcely did thine eyes, Orlando, close[12],
So on thy mind tormenting fancies preyed.
Nor would the vexing thoughts which bred annoy,
Let thee in peace that fleeting sleep enjoy.
LXXX.
To good Orlando it appeared as he,
Mid odorous flowers, upon a grassy bed,
Were gazing on that beauteous ivory,
Which Love’s own hand had tinged with native red;
And those two stars of pure transparency,
With which he in Love’s toils his fancy fed:
Of those bright eyes, and that bright face, I say,
Which from his breast had torn his heart away.
