When he had searched the palace high and low,
Orlando to himself began to say:
'It will be time and labour lost, I know,
If longer in these premises I stay.
The thief some secret door has not been slow
To find and may by now be far away.'
Thus thinking, to the meadow he went out
Which ringed with green the palace round about.

And as he slowly paces the estate,
Fixing his watchful gaze upon the ground,
In case, to left, or right, of the ingrate
The print of recent footsteps may be found,
He seems to hear a voice disconsolate
And recognizes that angelic sound,
Sees that belovèd face which has so changed him,
And from his former self so far estranged him.

It is her very voice he seems to hear,
Angelica he hears who calls in grief:
'Help me! My virtue, which I hold more dear
Than life, is threatened; come to my relief!
Ah! While my dear Orlando is so near,
Must it be taken from me by this thief?
Sooner by your own hand would I be killed
Than to such outrage unprotected yield!'

These words compel Orlando to return
And search through every chamber once again,
And even twice, for now within him burn
Such hope and passion that he spares no pain.
Her voice sometimes he thinks he can discern
And then he stops and listens, but in vain;
Her voice is heard wherever he is not,
For ever moving as he moves about.