Languid, he lit, and left his Brigliador To a discreet attendant: one undrest His limbs, one doffed the golden spurs he wore, And one bore off, to clean, his iron vest.
This was the homestead where the young Medore Lay wounded, and was here supremely blest.
Orlando here, with other food unfed, Having supt full of sorrow, sought his bed.
