However, the poem, with all its faults about it, may justly be called a
fine one.

If fancy, imagination, invention, description, etc., constitute a poet,
Ariosto is, unquestionably, a great one. His "Orlando," it is true, is a
medley of lies and truths--sacred and profane--wars, loves, enchantments,
giants, madheroes, and adventurous damsels, but then, he gives it you
very fairly for what it is, and does not pretend to put it upon you for
the true 'epopee', or epic poem. He says:

"Le Donne, i Cavalier, l'arme, gli amori
Le cortesie, l'audaci imprese, io canto."

The connections of his stories are admirable, his reflections just, his
sneers and ironies incomparable, and his painting excellent. When
Angelica, after having wandered over half the world alone with Orlando,
pretends, notwithstanding,

"---ch'el fior virginal cosi avea salvo,
Come selo porto dal matern' alvo."

The author adds, very gravely,--

"Forse era ver, ma non pero credibile
A chi del senso suo fosse Signore."

Astolpho's being carried to the moon by St. John, in order to look for
Orlando's lost wits, at the end of the 34th book, and the many lost
things that he finds there, is a most happy extravagancy, and contains,