So silently turning and yearning in slumber
For arms that no longer embrace or revere
What problems inflict? What size and what number?
Why does she requite? Why does he not stir?
The soul laid before me, implore me to leave him
And disturb him not, as he rests in his sleep
The pains in his thoughts, and worries that grieve him
Are silenced and tame though his heart she doth keep.
Orlando may sleepeth and sleepeth, he may here
With locks atop worries and hand atop hope
Who scripted this act; its gentle dismay here?
When will his good heart, fall fair in her scope?
The furies and worries of men so depart them
When day becomes night and still, motion doth cease,
And death may bereft these base notions, or start them
But sail on Orlando, with eyes sharp upon peace.